


Betrayal

by hdctbpal



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 1987)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 60,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hdctbpal/pseuds/hdctbpal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michelangelo's crush on April O'Neil takes a dark turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Slut from Channel 6, Part 1](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/103361) by AKABUR. 
  * Inspired by [The Slut from Channel 6, Part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/103364) by AKABUR. 
  * Inspired by [Pizza by the Shred](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/103367) by Michael Edens, Mark Edens. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/103430) by KonstanRyuk. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 1](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/111256) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 1 (non-camera version)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/111769) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 2](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/115450) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 3](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/117268) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 4](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/118297) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 5](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/119197) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 6](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/119950) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 7](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/120892) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 8](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/131894) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 9](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/131897) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 10](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/145421) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 11](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/145424) by Japes. 
  * Inspired by [April O'Neil 11 (alternate dress)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/145427) by Japes. 



> This story is inspired by AKABUR's series of comics titled "The Slut from Channel 6", but this is only a fan work and is not canonical. His artworks and stories may be different from this, and any mistakes here are entirely mine.

For any of the turtles, sneaking around the city was second nature by now. They had to, anyway, to find criminals to practice their skills on. They knew the police patrol routes and schedules for most of the city by heart. Avoiding them served a double purpose - the turtles found more crime and they avoided unwanted official attention themselves.

Mike was making his way across the city alone tonight. He regarded this as a light, almost pleasant challenge, like taking on a couple of muggers without his nunchaku. Much like the job he had just taken - though that had just become a little less simple.

He knew his brothers, and Splinter, and especially April, regarded him as the least mature, the least serious of them. This had never bothered him - much. But a few days earlier, he had overheard a chance remark April made to Splinter, wondering if Mike took everything as casually as he pretended to.

He knew she didn't mean to insult him - she would never have said it if she knew he could hear her. But somehow it stung him, in a way it could not have coming from his brothers or Splinter. It triggered an emotional reaction in him and that became a catalyst for a change in his life. He decided to get a job.

He knew this job was beneath his abilities. If he were human he could get a job training people in martial arts, or surfing. But exposing himself to the outside world that way was not fair to his brothers. Besides, the humans always said, "Do what you love and the money will follow." And there was almost nothing Mike loved more than pizza. So he got a job delivering pizza.

The hardest part was the interview. Mike had disguised himself as much as he could - trench coat, hat, a woolen muffler that disguised the shape of his face, thick glasses, even human flesh-colored makeup. Fall was giving way to winter early this year, so he had an excuse to bundle up.

He knew he still looked unusual, to say the least. But to his relief, the proprietor of the place - "Weird Pizza" - hardly seemed interested in him. The interview was a mere formality - in fact, his new boss seemed to regard it as a nuisance. It was conducted through a viewport in a thick steel door at the rear of the building.

Mike wondered if he had stumbled on a money laundering operation. That seemed too clichéd to be believed, but the Pizza Connection Trial had ended less than three years earlier. The trial disclosed that the Mafia had shipped over a billion dollars' worth of heroin into the US between 1975 and 1984, using a string of independent pizza parlors to sell it and launder the cash.

Using pizza to sell drugs. Mike didn't get pissed off easily, but that was one way to do it. He would keep his eyes open around his new employer, and if he saw anything suspicious, he would report it to his brothers.

Meanwhile, the job let him bring in some money and help with expenses. Food and clean water were not free, especially in the sewer. Ninjutsu equipment was not free. Of course the turtles were happy to liberate equipment from junkyards, but they did not steal, except from the likes of Shredder and Krang, and then only when needed.

Of course Mike would have to tell Splinter where the money came from, but he would ask Splinter not to tell the guys. Mike knew he would get a lot of ribbing, about how he just wanted to buy more surfing equipment, about how long his new job would last. He didn't want to tell them until he had been working, and helping with the money, for at least a few months.

Maybe it would even impress April.

He grimaced. Unfortunately, what he was about to do was not going to impress April. But he didn't see what choice he had. The guys had ordered a pizza from Weird Pizza and now Mike had to deliver it. Of course his disguise would not fool them.

He could just give the pizza to a random person on the street and ask them to deliver it, in exchange for keeping the tip. But April was the only human he knew well. And Mike took his job seriously. He didn't want to delegate it to someone he didn't know enough to trust.

So it had to be April. Anyway, he didn't mind telling her about his job now - he knew she would understand.

Actually, he was looking forward to seeing her reaction.

He would remember that feeling for a long time.

*

The turtles had sneaked into April's apartment before, of course. To them it was like a game. April would ask them sarcastically if they had any concept of privacy, but it was clear she didn't really mind. She needed no invitation to drop in on them, and she did at least twice a week, though she didn't treat it as stealth practice.

Mike was on the roof of the building next to hers. He anchored his grappling hook on the usual grate - first checking that it hadn't loosened, of course. He went over the edge and rappelled down the side until he was just above level with her floor. He bent his legs and pushed himself off the building, playing out the rope, and landed lightly on the fire escape a few feet from her window. Even as he made the landing, as he had a dozen times before, he sensed something was wrong.

Her lights were out. She never went to bed this early, unless she was sick. If she was, maybe he could bring her something to help her feel better. He would just have to deliver the pizza himself and spoil the surprise. April was more important.

But then he realized there was something else out of place. A sound. A voice. Her voice. But it sounded strange. The tone sounded different. And she wasn't talking. She was making sounds, but they weren't words.

She was in danger, Mike thought. Someone had broken into her apartment. Someone was hurting her.

His instinct was to crash through the window shell-first - he would suffer lacerations, but better there than on his hands and face - and divert her attacker from her at once.

But he thrust the urge down. He didn't know how many people were in there with her, where they were, or how they were armed. Or even whether they were human - April had attracted the attention of Shredder and his mutant thugs before. Charging in blind might just get Mike killed, and that wouldn't do April any good. He had to reconnoiter first.

He knew he should call the others on his turtle-comm, but he didn't think he could spare the time. And he was confident he could handle whatever was in there.

Ever so cautiously, he eased one eye around the frame of the window, then past her drapes.

He didn't understand what he saw at first. Then a dozen different things he had overheard humans talking about, or seen on television, or read in books, suddenly came together in his mind. He understood.

April wasn't making different sounds. She was making the same one, over and over, in a rhythm, the sounds coming just a little closer together each time.

"Oh...oh...ohhh - "

Mike turned away from the window, feeling as if he had taken a sucker punch to his head. And his heart, and his gut.

Afterward, he had only a fragmented image of what he had seen, as if the scene had been pitch dark and then illuminated for an instant by blinding light, like a flashbulb that went off in his face.

April, on her hands and knees. Nude, her breasts swaying slightly beneath her with the rocking motion of her body. April's right hand flat on the floor, her long slender fingers spread wide. A tiny thread of drool dangling from above, from April's mouth.

Mike rested his head against the brick wall outside her window and squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could shut out what he had already seen. He should have expected it, he kept telling himself. April was a grown woman; of course she had a sex life. But Mike had never really let himself believe it, had he? How could he?

He was hugging himself, almost curled into a fetal position. The pain wasn't physical, but it was so intense it might as well have been. It was as if there was a terrible yawning black emptiness inside him, pulling everything down into it, its pull so strong it would squeeze his insides until it crushed the air from his lungs and the blood from his heart.

"April..." he whispered. He said it as if it could somehow push back the nightmare that was pressing in on him. He didn't recognize his own voice. It sounded like the voice of someone who was weeping over April's grave, under a cold gray autumn sky. That was the image that printed itself on his mind. He could see every tiny nick on the gravestone, every bit of weathering caused by years of sun, rain, and frost. He could feel the wind biting into him, could hear the dead leaves skittering across the dry ground. "APRIL HARRIET O'NEIL", it was written on the gravestone, "APRIL 1, 1959 - NOVEMBER 23, 1989". Below that, it said, "WE MISS YOU APRIL".

Tears welled up in his eyes. His throat closed tight; his shoulders began to shake. But through all his shock and hurt, like an obscene counterpoint, were the sounds he could hear through the window.

"Oh, oh, ohhh God - "

What Mike felt then was anger. It surprised him, frightened him. It wasn't the kind of hot rage that his brother Raphael seemed to use as fuel. This was something cold and hard, implacable and remorseless. He had never felt such a thing, not in the heat of the most violent battle. He pondered it with a strange detached clarity, as if he were somehow watching himself from the outside.

Beyond the anger and hurt was the humiliation. How stupid, how laughably naive he had been. How stupid, for ever imagining he could matter to her in that way. How stupid, for thinking she was in danger and that he, Mike, was going to rush in there and save her. How stupid, when she was being loved by someone else, loving someone else, giving herself to someone else in a way she never would to him. She would laugh at the very idea of giving herself to him that way. She would laugh her wonderful, musical laugh, the laugh he would have loved to just sit and listen to.

Maybe the anger came from the shock to his ego; maybe it was some ruthless and ugly instinct of self-preservation.

"Ohhh, yes, yes - "

The anger, he thought later, was what made him do what he did next.

All their turtle-comms had cameras built into them. It had been April who suggested it. April was always looking for hard evidence of the threat Shredder and Krang presented. At first she just wanted a story, but soon she realized there was more at stake than that. If Krang ever succeeded in unleashing his nightmarish armies on Earth, Earth would need as much time to prepare as it could get. But before it could prepare, it had to believe the threat was real.

Photographic evidence could be faked, she knew, but if she could gather enough of it, sooner or later the government and military would have to take an interest. At first they would think they were merely putting down a wild conspiracy theory, but once they started digging they could hardly avoid stumbling over the truth.

But to April's frustration, she was always having trouble getting her footage. Sometimes she was captured in the process and her camera was confiscated. Other times she did not arrive until the turtles had already driven off Shredder's mutant and robot thugs.

So she asked Donatello to rig the turtle-comms with miniaturized cameras, so the turtles could help her gather evidence for their cause. And Don, who always enjoyed such a challenge, happily obliged. The media was of course an early adopter of digital camera technology, and April had no trouble borrowing equipment from Channel 6 for him to take apart, study, and replicate.

The turtle-comm had room for only a small memory card, which could hold only a few images of modest quality, but Don said the technology was advancing quickly; he would replace the cards as better ones became available.

The turtle-comm had a tiny optical viewfinder, but Mike couldn't bring himself to look at the lewd scene in April's apartment again. He pressed the comm flat against the wall to steady it and eased the lens past the window frame. He glanced, as briefly as he could, at the digital viewfinder to make sure the picture was correct. He almost hoped it wasn't. He pressed the shutter release.

And pressed it and pressed it. He realized he was matching the rhythm of April's cries. He had forgotten about the flash, but the camera was designed for stealth, so it was turned off by default.

He kept pressing the release, as if he were dry firing an empty gun at his shattered head after blowing his own brains out. He kept pressing it after the comm beeped quietly at him to say the memory card was full. He kept pressing it after the sounds from inside the apartment had reached a piercing crescendo that was like a great shard of ice driven through his chest...and then skidded downward into a long shuddering cry...and then stopped.

At last he got the hell out of there. If he had stayed a few more moments, he might have heard April's raised voice, the sound of a door slamming, the sound of April crying.

Anyway, it was too late for that to matter.


	2. Chapter 2

Mike spent the night wandering the streets of New York, not knowing where he was going, not caring who saw him. Not seeing or hearing, and trying his best not to think. If the Foot had seen him, they could have taken him easily.

Not that he cared.

It seemed his mind could do nothing but endlessly replay that awful scene in April's apartment. April on her hands and knees, April panting and moaning, liquid dripping from April's face to the floor -

Stop it, he told himself.

He wished it had been Shredder's thugs in her apartment. If one of them had driven a poisoned blade through his plastron, into his gut, and twisted, it would have felt better than this. Better than seeing April, on her hands and knees -

His turtle-comm chirped. Someone was calling him. Mike did something he had never done before. He took the comm out, not looking to see who was calling him, and turned it off.

He just didn't care.

He was beyond talking to anyone, seeing anyone. It would be hours before he could even pretend to be in his right mind. He wasn't up to it now.

Back at home, he realized, the guys would be wondering where their pizza was. If Mike had been there, he would have been the loudest complainer. Major bummer, he would have said.

Major bummer.

At the thought of pizza, his stomach growled. He ignored it. He had no appetite. He had forgotten the delivery, his job, everything. How completely all his good intentions had exploded in his face.

Dimly, he realized he had walked into a bad part of town. Factories, warehouses, many of them abandoned. The moonlight glinted on their few remaining unbroken windows.

He walked around the edge of a crumbling brick building. He hadn't bothered to keep his footsteps quiet, hadn't bothered to peek around the edge first. An instant's warning, a flash of moonlight reflected from metal, was all he had. 

Instinct saved him. He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders, and the club caught him across his bunched trapezius muscles, which had been tensed for hours. It was still enough to nearly drive him to his knees. He simply continued the downward motion, let his kneepads absorb the impact with the broken asphalt, rolled, and came to his feet a few paces away.

He was still a little dazed, but he could make out two men. The bigger one was holding the club that had hit him. The smaller one had a knife. That was what he had seen.

If the criminals had been smarter, they would have run away as soon as their attack failed. But they were too inexperienced or too stupid to recognize the response of a trained fighter. The smaller one gave a ratlike grin, exposing a couple of missing teeth. "Tough guy," he said.

"Shut up, just take him," the larger one said, raising his club again. The two of them started to try to circle him.

"You don't want to do this, dudes," Mike said. His voice sounded far away. He didn't even feel very angry, despite the blow to his head. Again he had the sense of watching the scene from a point outside of himself.

The muggers, of course, mistook his reluctance for fear. They grinned and moved in, sure of an easy score.

Major bummer.

*

Mike finally staggered back into the lair just as the sun was making a red line on the horizon of the world above. He was lucky he had worn shoes as part of his disguise; even with them, the tough skin of his feet was raw and bleeding after so many hours of walking.

He didn't much want to go home and face the inevitable questions, but he had nowhere else to go. Any other time, if Mike or any of his brothers were in trouble, he might crash for a couple of days with - he cut off the thought.

All the same, it was nice to see that none of the guys had gone to bed. Even Splinter had stayed up to wait for him. Mike had borrowed the Starcruiser without asking when he left, in order to make his deliveries, but their annoyance over that had long since been replaced by worry.

They crowded around him, exclaiming at his scuffed and torn disguise, his cuts and bruises. That made him feel better. The long night had drained some of the anguish out of him. Mostly he was just tired. He was able to talk to them calmly enough to keep them from suspecting that anything was wrong, aside from his appearance.

"I'm just glad you're back in one piece," Leonardo was saying. "We came out and looked for you, of course, but Splinter stayed here and listened to the police scanner."

"It was a bad night to be out," Splinter said.

"They found a guy with his head cracked open," Donatello said. "They took him to the hospital, but...." He shook his head.

Mike felt a dull pain in his gut, but he was pretty sure he kept it out of his face.

"He was a mugger, anyway," Raphael said. "Serves him right."

"Raph," Leo said.

"What?" Raph said. "His partner confessed right there at the scene. They had a bunch of stolen money and jewelry on them. They just picked the wrong victim, that's all. One less for us."

Mike felt the weight of Splinter's gaze on them. Were the dark eyes watching him just a little too closely? He raised his hands. "I got into a couple of fights, but it was just the usual. Drunks and gang members."

That was true. He didn't mention that, after that first fight, he went looking for the others. None of them were as vicious as the first one - at least he didn't think they were. But they gave him a way to keep from thinking. To keep from seeing April on her -

"I bet it was Casey," Don said.

"This was brutal, even for Casey," Leo said. "Next time we see him, I'll have a talk with him."

"Yeah, because he listens to us," Raph said.

"He can't do things like this," Leo said. "If he does, he ought to be put away himself."

"Well, we already knew that," Don said.

Put away, Mike thought, I ought to be put away. Later days, amigos. Bring me a pizza with burgundy sauce, gummi bears, and lockpicks. Weird Pizza can make it for you; just call 555-YUCK. He felt a sudden, hysterical urge to giggle. He stifled it, barely, by biting down hard on his tongue.

"What were you up to, anyway?" Don said.

Wearily, Mike told them the story of his pizza delivery job. What did it matter now? He said, "After my shift ended, I felt like walking around. You know, thinking about things. Like Raph does sometimes. Anyway, it felt good to be making money." That was true. It had, while it lasted.

"Where'd you park the Starcruiser?" Leo asked.

He told them. "I'll go get it," Raph said, "assuming it hasn't been stolen yet."

"I'm sorry, guys," Mike said, and meant it. "I'm beat. I'd like to grab a few Zs."

"Let Donatello attend to your injuries first," Splinter said. "I am glad you are home safe, my son."

"Thanks, sensei," Mike said automatically.

*

Don wasn't much for small talk, especially when he was doing something that required concentration, like tech work or treating injuries. Mike was grateful for the silence, the lack of questions. He was exhausted, and that helped him not to think.

Afterward, his bed felt surprisingly good. It seemed wrong that anything should feel good. He fell asleep almost at once.

And dreamed of April.

*

The next morning he was dragged from a fitful doze toward awakeness by his aches. He awoke with a start. It took a moment before he remembered the previous night. Then he wished he hadn't woken up. Ever.

He looked at the wind-up alarm clock on the dresser in the room he and his brothers shared. The clock was green and had a large turtle drawn on its face. April had given it to them.

The clock said one thirty. Even Mike, the least disciplined of the four, never slept this late. They must have turned off the alarm to let him sleep.

Leo walked in. "How're you feeling?"

Mike sat on the bed. "Like I wiped out. Where are the others?"

"Out looking for spare parts they can adapt to the Starcruiser. So Don can finish fixing the brakes."

Mike nodded, relieved. "Sorry about driving off in it last night." He certainly was. If he hadn't, he would never have -

"You should have asked, but your heart was in the right place. That's not what I'm here about, though."

Mike groaned. "I know, Leo."

"It's just that we couldn't reach you, and we were all worried. April too."

"April?" Mike didn't realize the way he said it until he saw the way Leo's eyes widened. With an effort, Mike relaxed his facial muscles. He rubbed his head. "Sorry. I, uh, had a bad dream about her last night." Several, in fact. "Something happened to her and for a second I thought you were talking about that."

Leo's surprise faded. "Oh. Well, April was trying to reach you last night and she couldn't. She was the one who told us. She was really worried, Mike."

"What was she worried about me for?" Mike knew he sounded surly, but he ached all over, and he just couldn't help it.

"I think she just wanted to talk. She said she had a date that didn't go very well."

Fortunately, Mike's hand was hidden underneath the sheet, so Leo didn't see it close into a fist.

"She wanted someone to cheer her up," Leo said, "and, well, you're the most cheerful of us. So she just wanted you to come over and talk."

"She wanted me to cheer her up," Mike said dully.

Leo frowned. "You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine." Mike tone's was flat. Raphael sounded exactly the same way when he said those words and when he was anything but fine.

"Because you seem a little - "

Mike stood. With an effort he took the heat out of his voice. "Look, I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me, bro."

Leo nodded slowly. Plainly, he wanted to say more, but saw Mike wasn't in the mood to hear it.

Mike's stomach growled. He hadn't eaten anything since lunch the previous day. "Hey," he said, "do we have any of that banana and sausage - " His voice, which had livened a little, went dead again. " - pizza left?" That was April's favorite kind. The turtles always kept one in the fridge in case she decided to drop in. Before Leo could answer, he said, "Never mind. I'm not hungry. How 'bout some sparring?"

*

The turtles were of course a very close-knit group, because they had no one but each other. They slept in the same room, trained together, ate together, partied together.

Mike hid his heartsickness as best he could, but he could not make himself seem remotely okay. He had no practice at keeping secrets from his brothers or Splinter. He retreated into grim silence. The change was the more striking because normally Mike personified the team's sense of humor. Sometimes he annoyed them, but he could always be counted on to joke when the going was hard, to lift their spirits when they were down.

They tried to do the same for him, but nothing helped. He was full of mysterious wrath that he refused to explain. Splinter tried to talk to him, and he turned aside Splinter's questions just as Raphael would - respectfully, but with an edge of barely controlled impatience.

He made himself eat, because otherwise they would have worried over him more. He had no appetite, not for pizza, not for anything. It was a nuisance to force down his favorite foods.

The turtles' lifestyle did not offer much privacy. And until now, Raphael was the only one who needed it. But now Mike began to do the same thing as Raph - he took off for hours at a time and returned when he felt like it.

He did not turn off his turtle-comm again - he knew that had been foolish. His brothers depended on him and he would not let them down. Now, truly, they were alone in the world, at least as Mike saw it.

He made sure to stay out during the evening hours when April tended to drop in.

Unfortunately, walking the streets gave him plenty of time to think, and he couldn't avoid that forever.

She had a date that didn't go well, Leo had said. It went better than you know, Mike thought with unaccustomed bitterness. He had heard enough about human dating to figure out what happened. April's date had smooth-talked his way into her panties, and then taken off, never to be heard from again. A bad date for her, not for him. Mike realized his hands were balled into fists. He wished April's date would come around a corner and try to mug him.

That guy got to - Mike couldn't even bring himself to think the word - her, and Mike got to clean up the emotional damage. The humans had a term for that too. The term was "emotional tampon".

He felt that cold anger again. It had begun to feel less alien to him, as if a blanket of snow were settling gently and inexorably over his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks passed before Mike had the lair to himself. There had been heavy snow the previous day and night, giving the city the bulk of its expected total inches for the season all at once. Today it was dark and quiet, and people were staying home to wait for the snowplows to clear the streets and their power to come back on.

Fort George Hill was closed to traffic from Nagle to St. Nicholas, and people were skiing and sledding down it. Those who didn't have toboggans were using old mattresses and even trash can lids. Channel 6 had sent April to report on it, and though she detested such soft stories, she had invited the turtles and Splinter to come play in the snow after she finished. There were few enough people out, and they were bundled so heavily, that Splinter decided his snout would not draw too much attention if covered with a scarf.

Mike begged off, claiming he wasn't feeling well enough to brave the cold. He had little trouble convincing them; since that one awful night, he had been withdrawn and listless. But they were disappointed not to have him along. "I'll be fine, bros," he said. "Just need some rest and green tea." Splinter had convinced him to try some of the blend he drank, and Mike had developed a strange craving for it, as if it were an anodyne; he drank cup after cup, scalding hot.

Leo clapped him on the shoulder, not too hard. "We'll say hi to April for you. She'll be sad not to see you. She hasn't seen you in forever."

Mike managed a wan smile. "Thanks, Leo." He only hoped she didn't come back with them.

When they were gone, Mike went into Don's lab and sat down at his desk. He could hardly take his turtle-comm to a 1-hour photo lab; most of the technology in it wasn't on the consumer market yet. He was no computer guru, but he had spent enough time watching Don work that he figured he could muddle through it.

He rummaged through the snake's nest of cables until he found one that could plug into his turtle-comm at one end and the computer at the other. The computer was already on, so Mike plugged in the cable.

Don had set up the computer so that any of them could use it if he were incapacitated. (In case the Foot, or the authorities, ever found the turtles' lair, he put in an auto-wipe program and hooked it up to the intruder alarms - if they were tripped, he had ten seconds to cancel the wipe. April kept tape backups for him in a safe deposit box at her bank.)

Text appeared on the screen, asking Mike if he wanted to print out the pictures. He pressed the "Y" key on the oversized keyboard (which Don had built to accommodate their large fingers). The computer asked him to choose paper size, black and white or color, and number of copies. He decided to cover his bases. He ordered several sizes in both black and white and color, with half a dozen copies of each combination.

The printer hummed to life. Sheets of paper piled up in the out tray.

His heart hammered. He felt sick with a mixture of titillation and dread, mostly the latter. He looked.

Donatello had done his job well, as he always did. When he had given them the upgraded turtle-comms, Mike remembered him talking about algorithms for auto focus, image stabilization, noise reduction, face recognition. Most of it went over Mike's head. But now the import of it was clear.

The pictures were sharp and vivid. A portrait studio could not have done better with April's face. He had never seen her face wearing that expression - or if he had, that night, he had managed to hide it from himself. Now it was seared into his soul.

He went to the kitchen and found some plastic sandwich bags. He divided the pictures into sets and sealed them in the bags, folding those that were too large to fit. He had to hide them, and he knew the humid climate of the sewer would destroy them in short order.

Not far from the lair was a cluster of pipes, of various thicknesses, running from floor to ceiling, close to the wall. Mike reached behind one of the thickest, with one of the small round magnets he had taken from Don's lab. The pipe was a little rusty, but the magnet clung to it easily. He added another magnet and used them to secure one of the bags of pictures to the back side of the pipe. The area was poorly lit, and the turtles had never seen a maintenance worker down here. The sewers were full of such hiding places, and Mike had chosen them carefully. It would take years for someone to find them, accidentally or otherwise.

*

There was a loose brick in the wall under Mike's bed. He eased it out and started to put the remaining pictures into the space behind it. His hand touched another, larger bag that was already hidden there. Knowing he shouldn't, he took it out.

The bag held mementos. For all his flippancy, Mike was in some ways the most sentimental of his brothers. He was one of those people who kept everything. And he took care of his things - Splinter had drilled into him the need to maintain his ninjustu gear, and he found the habit extended to his other possessions. Most of them were in waterproof boxes under his bed and in the storage room. But this bag was for the things he did not want the others to see, the things he did not want them to kid him about.

There was a stuffed turtle Raphael had given him for a long-ago birthday. Its soft green fur was faded with age and it was missing one of its black marble eyes. There was the sweat-stained yellow headband (which he carefully washed before putting in here) he was wearing when he first won a sparring match with Splinter (though he had since realized it was part of Splinter's teaching).

But most of it was about April.

There were pictures. Another birthday, Mike and Leo leaning into each other, April behind them with her arms over both their shoulders, a party hat sitting precariously atop her lush reddish-brown hair. April, her face wild with laughter, wrestling with Raph, who was tickling her. April, slightly drunk, hugging Mike from the side, her head resting on his shoulder, a quiet smile on her face. April asleep on the lavender couch in their living room, snuggled in a woolen blanket that Mike had put over her after he noticed her shivering.

There were all the cards she had given him, for his birthday, for Christmas, even Thanksgiving and Halloween and Valentine's Day. She never simply signed her cards; she always wrote a little message to each of them, in her small, neat handwriting, ending always with "Love, April". They smelled faintly of her perfume.

He opened one of the cards at random. He felt sick and shivery all over. This one wasn't a holiday card, but a thank you card. The cover showed a little girl in pigtails and a yellow dress playing with a tortoise - she must have had to hunt all over just to find it.

Inside, she wrote: "'Thank you' hardly seems like enough for catching me in midair when I fell off that cliff in Ireland. But somehow, even as I was falling, I knew I would feel you catching me. I knew I would hear you saying 'Gotcha, dudette!' You're always there to catch me when I fall. Love always, April."

Mike lost it. He'd been holding it in for too long and now it came out. His mask was soaked and then the tears ran down his face and dripped from his snout and stained the card.

Out of nowhere a wild rage seized him. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he pulled all the old pictures and cards out of the bag in a thick sheaf and ran outside the lair and hurled them into the drainage canal. The water was swollen with the runoff of melting snow and the current was swift; the papers were quickly swept from his sight. He stood and stared at where they had been, trembling, feeling as if he just ripped his insides out with his own hands.

He didn't know how long he stood there. Eventually his leaden feet carried him back into the lair, to his bed. He put the new pictures of April into the memento bag in place of the old. He took a last look at the topmost picture. Unwillingly, he could feel himself hardening. She looked heartrendingly beautiful and sweet, even like this. He wanted to die.

Mike put the bag back into its hiding place and replaced the brick. He was angry, ashamed of himself, sick with grief, wrung out after his outburst. He crawled into his bed and stared at the wall. At last he dozed.

In a dream he watched, helpless, as April fell into the drainage canal and cried out and was swept away before he could reach her. He chased after her, falling farther and farther behind, but she was already facedown in the water and not moving, visible only as a blurry streak of yellow and a wet mop of auburn hair.

*

To Mike's relief, April did not come back with his brothers and Splinter that afternoon. "She had to go back to work," Leo said. "But we took some pictures. Thought they might cheer you up a bit."

The pictures were of imprints the turtles had made in the snow with their shells. Mike smiled a little to see them. Then he came to the last picture. It showed April, lying on her back, smiling, her pretty face reddened by cold. Her heavy yellow coat was open and the hills of her breasts could be seen even through her thick white wool sweater. Her arms and legs were outstretched, her auburn hair making a thick halo around her head. She was making an angel in the snow.

"It's probably about time for her report to come on." Don went to the TV and turned it on.

"This is April O'Neil, Channel 6 News," April said on the TV. It was the first time Mike had heard her voice in weeks, except in his nightmares - he'd even managed to avoid listening to her broadcasts. She looked and sounded as irrepressibly cheerful as ever. He knew that was just part of her job, but still, he couldn't help hearing a touch of mockery. Everything's peachy with me, her voice said. Sorry for breaking your heart, Mikey, but you'll live - giggle - though you might not want to.

April said, "I'm coming to you from - "

"Thanks, guys." Mike was already on his way out. "I'm feeling better, guess I'll go for a quick walk."

*

A few nights later, he nearly ran into her.

The snow had been swept from the streets and was melting in untidy heaps, gray now with the inevitable grime. Mike went out for his usual walk, staying gone for hours. April came over while he was gone, but she must have stayed late, perhaps hoping to run into him.

He kept his footsteps quiet as he approached the lair. If he heard her voice, he would leave and come back later. The lair had sensors around the perimeter, of course, but Don had calibrated them to ignore the turtles, Splinter, and April.

" - wrong with him," he heard Leo say.

Mike froze. He didn't want to walk in on them talking about him either. He pressed himself against the wall and slowed his breathing. He could only hear fragments of what the others were saying.

"Ever since - " His eyes closed. It was April. He started to back away. " - been avoiding me," she said. That stopped him. He knew he should leave - he didn't want to know what she thought, and it was torment to hear to her voice - but his legs refused to move.

"Did you say - thing to him?" Raph said.

"No." April. The word reached him clearly. Her tone was mystified and hurt. She sighed. "Maybe - just didn't like - I had a date."

"Yeah," Don spoke for the first time, somberly. "He always - of a crush on you."

"That is true. Michelangelo cares for you a great deal." Splinter's voice, deep and resonant and even, was the only one that carried clearly. "His carefree manner conceals his deeper emotions. Of late, his feelings have been hidden from all of us, even me."

Mike squeezed his eyes shut. The worst of it was, Splinter was right, though Mike wished he weren't. To hear the others openly speaking of his agony was humiliating, and yet he felt as if the vice that had gripped his heart for the last six weeks had eased, just a little.

"Perhaps you are right, April," Splinter said. "I shall speak to him - "

"No," April said. This time the word carried decision. "Please. I'll - to him." Her voice turned rueful. "If I ever - him again."

"You will," Leo said, though he sounded less reassuring than he no doubt meant to.

" - way, I wish - could go out - him," April said. Mike went utterly still. She went on, "At least - treat me better - that jerk I was - "

"It would present many challenges." Splinter's tone was sympathetic. The vice closed on Mike's heart again as he understood. April wasn't being serious about going out with him. She was just venting her frustration.

And April confirmed it. "Yeah," she said. Her tone was light. "We're from very different worlds. But you guys know I love you."

Mike flexed his knees to get the stiffness out of his legs and slowly backed away. He headed to the surface. The pain of that first night, weeks ago, had returned in full force, and more. He didn't get into any fights tonight. Maybe it was something in the rapid way he walked, or the tense line of his shoulders, but no one even approached him. The icy anger was becoming his fast friend. He had to stop and think to remember what he had been like without it.

*

Mike was standing in Hudson River Park and looking out over the half-frozen river, gray flecked with white, when he made the decision. In truth, he had long since made it, a little at a time, like the snow that was again falling on him unnoticed, but that was when it crystallized in him.

He felt sick at the idea. April was their first and closest friend. But after what Mike had seen her doing that awful night, he felt betrayed. He knew that wasn't fair, but it was the fact. He did not think of himself as a bad person, but he knew he was about to do a bad thing. But the alternatives...

He had tried to give the hurt time to fade. It clung to him more stubbornly than ever. He would not spend the rest of his life avoiding April. And he could not spend it enduring her contempt, comforting her after she slept with men who used her and discarded her, smiling as the knife twisted in his gut, shoving aside his pain and longing and pretending it was all okay. His life was not worth living on those terms. And he was not going to kill himself. He had had enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Mike decided to confront April at work, to underscore what was at stake. It was easy to enter the Channel 6 building without being detected; he had done so to deliver a pizza to that jackass Vern Fenwick, April's bitter rival. But, Mike thought to himself, even people like Fenwick had their uses.

It was the lunch hour; Mike slipped past the reception desk amid streams of people going in and out. If Irma recognized him or even saw him, she gave no sign of it.

April had her own office; as she had hoped, her career had benefited from her exclusive coverage of Shredder's rampages and of the turtles thwarting them. Fortunately, she did not rate her own secretary yet. Mike looked up and down the hallway to make sure he was unobserved, listened at her door to make sure she was alone, and walked in.

It was the first time Mike had seen her in person in weeks. She seemed the same to him as ever. Amazing. Brave. Beautiful. And forever just out of reach. Her yellow jumpsuit was rumpled, her hair was a little untidy, her eyes had faint shadows under them, but it only made her look more desirable. Her desk was a mess of papers, video and audio tapes, and empty styrofoam coffee cups. She was clearly hard at work.

She looked up as the door opened. Her face lit up in its achingly sweet smile. "Michelangelo!" Her voice betrayed just a shade of uncertainty.

"April," he said. He kept as much of his tension out of his voice as he could. He'd rehearsed this scene many times.

She lay aside the paper she was reading and sat back in her chair with a sigh. "Gosh, I haven't seen you in forever."

The sadness in his smile was genuine. "I know."

She took in a deep breath and let it out. "You're upset." April was never one to dance around the issue. He had always liked that about her.

He wanted to tell her he was a lot more upset than she knew, but that would just be asking for pity. For what he was about to do, he deserved anything but pity. He just said, "Yeah. There's something you should know." He reached into his trenchcoat and took out the letter-size brown envelope and handed it to her.

She frowned a little - by now she had picked up on his tension - but mostly she just seemed curious. She opened the clasp on the envelope and took the pictures out. They were facing down. She turned them over.

As rotten as Mike felt about this - he hadn't slept at all the night before - he had to admit this instant was, in a twisted, shameful way, a little like the instant before opening a Christmas present.

April did not disappoint him. Her mouth fell open and she gasped, loudly, before her hand flew to her mouth and covered it. Her eyes went so wide he could see white all around the dark irises. She exhaled and sucked in another rasping breath. Her face, already pale with winter, went paler still.

She began leafing through the pictures. Her mouth was still open slightly, her lower lip trembling. She shook her head slightly, as if she didn't want to see them, but her long slender fingers kept going, as if they couldn't stop. Her shoulders were drawn inward, as if to protect herself, and in her high-backed chair she seemed small and vulnerable indeed.

She finished leafing through the pictures, and then leafed through them again. When she finally stopped, she looked stricken, sick. The trembling had spread to her whole body now.

Mike had already gone over to the water cooler and brought back a cup of water. "Here, drink this," he said. He felt awful for her, and worse for being the one who had done it to her. He grimly reminded himself of what the past couple of months had been like. It was either a lifetime of that...or this.

April took the cup of water. She looked at it as though she had no idea what to do with it. Her hand was shaking so that water slopped over the side and dampened the pictures. All at once, she raised it to her lips, tilted her head back, and drank it off like a shot of brandy. He watched the ripple in her long slim neck as she swallowed. She set the cup down with a thump. She turned the pictures face down, on the desk, crossed her arms over them, and buried her face in her arms.

Mike had an overpowering desire to get up and leave. Sternly he ordered himself to sit. He looked out of the window. The view from April's office was mostly of other buildings, but now even those were obscured by a low gray sky and sporadic swirls of snow.

"Where did you get these?" April's face was still hidden, her voice muffled. "Who took them?" She didn't understand, or more likely she didn't want to. He didn't answer. That was answer enough. She lifted her head. There were tears in her dark eyes, but they hadn't fallen yet. Her face held unbelieving horror. "You? You took them?" Her voice was a barely audible rasp.

"Yeah." Mike's voice was quiet.

"Why?" A tear had escaped from her left eye, causing her mascara to run just a little. The word was a cry of hurt and wonder. It pierced him to the heart.

"Does it matter?"

Anger gave some strength back to April's voice. "Yes, Michelangelo. I think it does." She spoke slowly and deliberately, as though to a wayward child.

So he told her. He told her what had he had seen that night, and what he had gone through since. He spoke calmly, directly, confessing his emotions without dwelling on them. April just sat and listened, not interrupting, hardly moving. Her tears had stopped and her trembling slowly stilled.

It was the first time Mike had unburdened himself to anyone. And he was telling this to the only person in the world whom he wanted to hear it. The tightness in his chest eased again, ever so slightly. The problem was, what lay at the heart of his grief was what April had done. And telling her about it might feel good, but it wasn't going to change a thing. He had known that ever since he had overheard her talking to Splinter and his brothers.

When he finished, April just watched him for several long moments, then her eyes dropped to the pictures face down on her desk. She let out a deep sigh and then took a tissue and blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. Streaks of her mascara ran down her cheeks, which strangely looked very attractive. Maybe that was why, when she turned to confront him, she looked and sounded almost as if her breakdown had never happened.

"I almost want to apologize for what you saw," April said in a low and angry voice. "I understand that it hurt you. I do. I admit I would be devastated if I saw - " her eyes dropped - "the person I cared about, doing that." She took a breath and looked back up at him. "But I have told you, all of you, to use the front door unless it's an emergency, and then to call me on the phone or my turtle-comm. I have a right to privacy, Michelangelo. I think of all of you as my family, but I also have the right to live my own life."

Her voice rose slightly, though it was still much more quiet than her usual shows of temper, and therefore more ominous. "And this - " She brushed at the pictures, still face down, with a contemptuous backhand gesture. "How dare you! How could you even think to do such a thing? After what we've been through together? With what we are to one another?"

He didn't answer. He'd been asking himself plenty of questions like that for the past few days, and there were no good answers, only some that were worse than others.

Fortunately, April didn't seem to expect an answer. She swept up the pictures and stuffed them back into the envelope, wincing a little as she did so. She closed the clasp on the envelope and thrust it at him as if to impale him with it. Her neck and her cheeks were flushed. Mike had never seen her so angry. He also couldn't help noting that it looked very good on her.

April's tone was icy. "Please take these - things to the copy room down the hall. Wait until you're alone, and then feed them, face down, into the shredder. I'm trusting you to do that, Michelangelo. Do that, and I'll try to forget this ever happened." She let out a furious rush of air. "Though I have to be honest with you. It is going to take a while."

April no doubt thought she was being generous, and in truth she was. Unfortunately for her, without realizing it, she had also burned Mike's bridges behind him, by making it clear that things would never again be the same between them, whatever he did.

Mike took the envelope from her, and as he did, he noticed a small bright red smear on her thumb. "April," he said without thinking, as if their confrontation had never happened, "you cut yourself." She had done it when the stuffed the pictures in the envelope, he realized.

"Never mind!" April said.

"Just a sec." Mike was already on his way out the door. He realized it must seem strange to show her kindness, after what he had just done to her, but - well, he wanted to be kind to her. He was never happier than when he was doing that.

He went to the copy room as April had ordered, but he did not put the pictures in the shredder. He had almost forgotten he had them. He found a first-aid cabinet on the wall, opened it, and took some gauze, tape, and bandages. He went back to April's office.

April had made no effort to get back to work. She had taken her phone off the hook and she was resting her head in her hands. "Come back later - " She looked up. "Oh. You. Did you - " Her brown eyes fell on the envelope still in Mike's hand. Her face darkened.

Mike glanced at her hand. The bleeding hadn't stopped yet. He folded a square of gauze. "Here."

"I'm fine," April snapped. When she was mad, she also became stubborn.

He kept his tone calm. "Let me see your hand, dudette. Please."

April exhaled noisily. Her lips thinned. She thrust her right hand out on the desk, palm up.

Mike pressed the folded gauze down on the cut, in the fleshy part of April's thumb, then wrapped two layers of self-adhesive tape around it.

"Thank you," she said. "Now go shred those and leave me alone, please."

He wanted to. He wanted to come back and give her the rest of the bad news another day. But he also wanted to get this over with. She was angry, and maybe that would help her deal with it. On the whole, he much preferred seeing her angry than sad. Besides, it would be more cruel to walk out of here and then give her an even worse surprise later, when she believed it was over.

"Well?" April said. She jerked her head at the door.

He swallowed. "Sorry, April. I can't do that."

He expected that to make her angry again. To his surprise, she sat back in her chair and folded her arms. "What do you mean?" Her voice was wary. She knows, Mike thought, of course she knows. She was never stupid.

The words came hard. "I think you know what I mean, April." It sounded trite, but in the many times he'd rehearsed this conversation, Mike had found no better way to lay bare the ugly heart of the matter.

Then April surprised him again. With a suddenness that he would have expected more from a fellow ninja, she sprang from her chair at him, sliding across her desk with a spray of displaced papers, and tackling him hard enough to tip his chair over backward. They both went to the floor with a crash. As they fell, Mike found himself thinking that April had never been shy about defending herself.

Mike slid backward out of the overturned chair with the momentum of the fall, with April still on top of him. Her right hand had a fistful of his trenchcoat, but she wasn't trying to hurt him. Her left hand strained to reach the envelope in Mike's right hand, which he had automatically held out of her reach. Her limbs were longer than his. She grabbed the envelope easily. He did not fight her as she yanked it away from him.

The door opened. It was Vernon. "What is that dreadful racket?" he asked in his prissy voice. He took in the scene: Mike lying spreadeagled on the floor with April kneeling atop him, though both were fully clothed. No doubt he saw through Mike's disguise, but then he had seen the turtles before, though he was no more their friend than he was April's. He giggled. "Really, April. Be so kind as to entertain your...sources on your own time." He withdrew and closed the door.

"That grinning weasel," April said, Mike momentarily forgotten. Then she got to her feet, helping herself up with a stiff shove of her right hand against Mike's chest. As she backed away, she tripped over his leg, and fell into, rather than sat in, her chair. Her busty chest heaved as she panted for air. Her hair was badly mussed; her pretty face was flushed and glistening with sweat, threatening to ruin what remained of her makeup.

She ripped open the envelope this time, yanked out the pictures, and methodically ripped them in half again and again, until they were reduced to meaningless bits that powdered her lap, her office floor, and Mike. Outside, the snow was now falling steadily. The sky was dark enough that the streetlights were coming on, making halos in the foggy air.

Mike stood, causing more bits of paper to flutter to the floor. "Pick those up," April ordered, pointing at them, "and put them in the trash, every one of them. I'll put the bag in the incinerator myself." She tried to brush off the bits that had accumulated in her lap, but the photographic paper clung to her jumpsuit. She said something dark under her breath and began picking them off of her, one at a time, holding them away from her by her thumb and forefinger as if they were diseased, and dropping them in the trash.

Mike shrugged. In this, he did not mind obeying her. He knelt on the floor - his shell didn't really accommodate sitting on his backside on a hard surface, and he had kneepads - and began scooping up the larger drifts of paper and putting them in the trash. He was nearly finished when April said, "Michelangelo."

Mike looked up. She was looking down at him. She had touched up her makeup, but her face looked tired and sad. For once, she looked like a woman who was past thirty, but it only made her look better to him. He wanted to jump up and comfort her, even though it was his fault to begin with.

"Michelangelo," she said, "How many copies are there?"

It didn't occur to him to lie. "Six. Five, now."

"Where are they?"

"In the sewers. Different places."

Fear struck April's face. "What? Where?" She leaned down and put her hands on his shoulders and squeezed hard, as if her anger had been shoved aside by something more urgent. "Michelangelo, what if someone finds them? Do you know what that will do to me?" There were tears in her eyes again, and in her voice. "I'll lose my job! I'll never be able to work in the news business again! I'll never be able to show my face here again! I'll end up waiting tables in California!"

"No one will find them. I made sure of that," he said.

Tears began to trickle down April's face again. "Michelangelo, this is not a game. This is my life you're playing with. I know you've saved it, more than once, but that does not give you the right to wreck it. You have to tell me where they are. Please. Please."

Mike wished he could tell her, if only to reassure her. He put his hand over hers on his shoulder; she clearly wanted to pull her hand away, but she didn't. He said, "I know how important it is. I promise no one will find them."

April sniffled and choked back a sob, but more tears escaped from the corners of her eyes, making her mascara start to run again, and her mouth was trembling. She said, her voice wavering, "I never knew you. I had no idea you hated me."

That made him recoil. "I don't hate you, April. I could never hate you."

She said, in that same tear-clogged voice, "You took pictures of me naked. You brought them here and showed them to me. You won't tell me where the rest of them are. You're threatening to destroy my career and my life. Yes, Michelangelo, I would say you hate me."

For the first time, Mike lost his grip on his emotions. "All I wanted, all I ever wanted," he said, raising his voice, startling her, "was to be...what that guy was. To you." That made less sense than he wanted, but he saw that April understood. His voice was quieter now. "I know that doesn't make it okay. But I don't hate you."

April sighed; her whole body seemed to slump. "That's what you want," she said, her voice scratchy, small, and defeated. "Me."

"Yes," he said, letting more emotion into it than he meant to. April closed her eyes, squeezing out a fresh tear, and looked away. How long Mike had ached to tell her that. How many ways he had dreamed of telling her that. But not like this. Not like this.

She turned back to him and opened her eyes. "I don't think you'll do it."

He was prepared for that one. He pictured her, naked on her hands and knees, crying out with pleasure as he hunched outside her window and cried. "Try me," he said flatly.

"What are you going to do, show it to the guys?" April didn't sound angry, or afraid. She just sounded wrung out. "They'll kick you in the shell. Which they should, anyway."

Mike braced himself. This was the worst of it. "I'm sure Thompson would know what to do with them." Her jaw dropped. "Or Fenwick."

Her mouth worked, but she found no words. He had surprised her, all right.

Mike despised himself; he had to get out of there. He forced himself to deliver the rest of it in an even tone. "Think about it and let me know. Wear some green nail polish when you're on the air."

She didn't say anything else. She just watched him, her mouth still open slightly, looking as stunned as if he had slapped her. That was the worst thing of all. He would have felt better fleeing her office under a barrage of curses. He deserved them.

He put his scarf back on to disguise his snout, then his hat. He closed her office door quietly behind him. He walked rapidly down the hall and found the men's restroom. He kicked open a stall door and barely got the scarf off again before he threw up in the toilet. Again, the worst of it was knowing that she felt worse than he did.

Was this worse than what that man had done to her? Mike wasn't sure, but he feared so. He had no intention of using and discarding her. He wanted only to be good to her. He knew that did not begin to excuse what he had done. But it was all he had.

*

He went straight back to the lair. If April had called his brothers with her turtle-comm, he might be walking right into the beating of his life, but putting it off wouldn't make it any better.

Leo was polishing his katana. He looked up. "Hey, Mikey." His voice had the hint of worry it always did when he talked to Mike these days, but otherwise it sounded normal.

"Hey, Leo," Mike said. He felt a little better. As if he had shrugged off a demon that perched on his shell. Then he remembered he had only given the demon to April. He was ashamed of the relief he felt. "Where's Don and Raph?"

Leo pointed to the dojo. "Sparring." Just then Mike heard the thunk of a bo meeting a sai, and a grunt.

"Just the thing." Mike went to get his nunchaku. He had hardly touched them in the last two months. They felt good in his hands. He hurried into the dojo. He had a lot of emotions to work out. It was time to get back into practice.

*

Mike knew it wasn't over yet. He regretted the weakness he had shown to April, which she had pushed him into with her tears. It would only make it harder for both of them. Because she was right - he could never show those pictures of her to anyone. But he had to persuade her otherwise.

A week went by with no answer, then another. Now it was April who stayed away from the turtles. She claimed she was busy with work. Splinter and his brothers stopped worrying about Mike - he was hardly back to his old self, but he seemed to be getting better - and began to worry about her.

It was easier for April to hide her problem from them since she didn't live with them, but they had watched her news broadcasts for years and they couldn't help but see changes. There were faint shadows under her eyes that her makeup could not quite hide, as if she weren't sleeping well. Her indefatigable cheerfulness seemed a bit forced.

They guessed she was carrying an unhappy secret. But she had never hidden anything from them. Leonardo wondered if it was a death in her family. Raphael feared it was cancer, and almost demanded they confront her, but Splinter vetoed that. Donatello thought she was still having trouble with her love life - though he was careful not to say so around Mike. Mike didn't volunteer any guesses, but he still seemed troubled, so they knew he was worried about her too.

Splinter was no fool. He said little at these discussions, but his placid dark eyes tended to rest thoughtfully on Mike. He suspected April had confronted Mike about his feelings, as she had promised, or he had confronted her first, and the talk had not gone well, and she felt too awkward about coming to see them for a while.

But Splinter also knew the turtles' enemies never rested. Sooner or later there would be another attack, another crisis. April would want a story about it, and she would charge fearlessly into the fray as she always did, more like a knight than a maiden, with her camera as her sword. She might get in over her head and need to be rescued, and she would know the turtles would come for her, as they always had. And maybe that would help to heal whatever this rift was that had formed between them.


	5. Chapter 5

" - this is April O'Neil, Channel 6 News," April said. She kept smiling until the red light on the camera winked out. Her smile stopped at once. She massaged her temples. She had a headache, as she often did lately. She was outside, and it wasn't snowing, but winter still had its grip firmly on the city.

Vernon detached the camera from the tripod and began to pack it in its case. He yawned. "What a boring story," he said. "Hardly worthy of my talents."

April agreed with the first half of that, at least. They were standing in front of an ugly old building that a developer wanted to buy, tear down, and rebuild. A group of preservationists wanted the city to block the sale because they claimed the building had historical significance. Privately, April thought the place was a dump that should be leveled on general principle. But, as always, Vernon's prissy voice frayed her nerves. She just said, "Yeah."

She wanted to go hang out with the turtles again. Surely they could lead her to a real story. It had been weeks since that awful meeting with Michelangelo. There had been no word from him and no sign of the pictures. April had nearly convinced herself she had read him correctly. He would never show those pictures to anyone.

He might be angry with her - though she hardly felt she deserved it - but he cared about her too much. She told herself it was not what he said that mattered, but what he did. He gave himself away when he raced out of the room to get a bandage to put on her paper cut, and then all but ordered her to let him put it on her. She had seen the concern in his eyes, his voice, his manner. On this slender thread April had hung her hopes.

"By the way, April," Vernon said in a grumpy tone, "it seems your little green friends have sunk to the level of playing practical jokes on yours truly."

Vernon must have thought April's reaction was very strange. The blood drained from her face; her dark eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. Her whole body seemed to tense up. She stammered, "Wh-what do you mean?"

He frowned and rummaged in his duffel. "Now, where did I put that silly thing?" he said. Finally he took out a letter-size brown envelope.

April couldn't help herself. She gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Thankfully, the other camera crewman was in the van, putting their equipment away. April set her teeth, so they wouldn't chatter, but her hands shook as she took the envelope from Vernon. "Did - did you open it?" she asked in a small voice.

"Of course I opened it," he said. "It was addressed to you, care of me. As if I'm your personal mailman. Next I suppose they'll be sending me your dirty laundry."

"Vern..." April's voice was shaking. She fumbled at the clasp on the envelope. Inside was a single piece of heavy photographic paper. She trembled, breathing rapidly, as she took it out. It was face down. She turned it over so quickly it flapped.

"A picture of a bottle of green nail polish?" Vern said. "I'm afraid your friends have finally gone out of their shells." He finally saw how upset she was. "April, are you - "

April crushed the picture and the envelope to her chest and strode away rapidly. She walked about twenty feet away and stopped, apparently to look at a tree that was in her way.

He started after her. "I say, April - "

Her left hand shot out behind her, arm straight, palm out. Even Vernon could understand that message. He shrugged, shook his head, and went back to packing up the equipment.

*

April walked back to the van, got in the driver's seat, and drove back to the Channel 6 building in a stony silence that no one wanted to interrupt, even Vernon, who tended to gripe about her aggressive driving.

She parked the van in the underground garage and walked off without waiting for the others. She rode the elevator to the lobby alone, then walked out of the lobby, ignoring Irma at the reception desk.

There was a department store two blocks away. April walked there with a brisk stride and grim face that made even her fellow New Yorkers step out of her way. The cosmetics department, which did the most business, was on the ground floor. She went to the nail polish section. A saleswoman approached her; April waved her away.

She spent ten humiliating minutes, which she did not have to spare, choosing a shade of green. April O'Neil was a woman who did things properly, even this.

She would do what Michelangelo wanted. How bad could it be? It couldn't be worse than the scare he had just given her. The plain fact was, he had her where he wanted her. April shuddered. If Thompson ever saw that picture he would merely fire her. Fenwick would report it on the evening broadcast if he could - or worse, he might decide to blackmail April himself.

But April was still confident in her ability to manipulate Michelangelo. He was in love with her, not that she would ever dignify it with that word in front of him. In fact he was obsessed with her; she had just had a nasty reminder of that. She would just have to control what she gave him, and push back at every step, and make as much of a nuisance of herself as she could. But, for now, she would do what he wanted.

Eventually - she hoped - he would tire of his little game. Wanting and having were two different things, after all. And at his age, no one knew what he truly wanted. April just hoped his infatuation with her would run its course before he demanded to sleep with her. She told herself she just had to hang on.

She finally found a shade that made her think of the turtles (but then, she was thinking of little else at the moment) and wouldn't look too outlandish on her. She picked the smallest bottle; she had no intention of doing this any longer than she had to. She went to the counter and paid for it. Then she went to the nearest dressing room, locked herself in, and sat down at the counter to paint her nails.

April kept her nails neatly trimmed and polished, but she never painted them; she had always found it too girly. She had polish and polish remover in her purse. She removed the old clear polish from her nails with cotton balls and swabs, wiped her hands with a tissue, then began applying the green polish. She finished the first coat, blew on her nails for several minutes, touched them lightly together to make sure they were dry, then began applying the second coat.

While she worked, she found herself thinking about how she'd gotten into this mess.

It started with that - man, she thought. She refused to dignify him with a name, though she had several vile adjectives for him.

If only she hadn't brought him home that night.

He worked on Wall Street. Thompson sent April to interview him for a retrospective about the stock market crash of 1987, two years ago that month. What caused it, could it happen again, et cetera. Finance was not a subject that greatly interested her. But she certainly interested him. He was instantly smitten, and asked her out as soon as the interview was over. She politely declined.

He pursued her. He was never rude or pushy about it, just persistent. And, April admitted, a man had to be persistent to get her attention, because she was so focused on her career, and most of her remaining free time was spent with the turtles.

April liked her independence. She was immensely proud of herself for having made it, alone, in New York. She was not even sure she wanted to marry, though she had the occasional flash of depression when the thought struck her that her mother had been married for seven years at April's age. But it was a different world then. And April still had so much she wanted to do with her career.

But, she had to admit, she was starting to feel a little conflicted. Being alone gave her freedom, and hanging out with the turtles usually soothed her moments of loneliness. But not always.

She was even less sure about having children, though her judgment was perhaps colored by her hair-raising night and day of babysitting that telekinetic Neutrino girl. And the turtles were her family; April was very much the older sister they never had. That helped her to put off worrying about a family of her own.

Anyway, her admirer sent her flowers, nice ones, expensive ones, and she had to admit it felt good. She was too embarrassed to mention it to the turtles, and she swore Irma to silence. Irma, of course, thought it was thrilling, and was jealous at the same time. April tried to set the man up with Irma, but he showed no interest; and, April admitted to herself, she might have been just a little put out if he had shifted his attentions so easily.

She planned to spend that fatal evening at home, curled up on her couch with a book. But he sent her some flowers that morning, with a card asking her to meet him for dinner, and she called him and agreed, mainly so he would stop pestering her.

To her surprise, it was a wonderful evening; he had been rather stiff during the interview, but over dinner he opened up and turned out to be charming. She expected him to try to woo her with his money, but he didn't. He was from a small town, and she was more at home in New York than he was. She thought that was cute.

April had to admit it was refreshing to have a conversation that wasn't about her job, with another human who wasn't Irma. She loved the turtles, and Splinter, but as she had told them, she and they were from different worlds.

He ordered a second bottle of wine, and April probably had a bit more than she should have. They went for a walk, holding hands. April decided she needed a little physical release; it had been a long time. So, contrary to her usual habit, April took him back to her apartment.

What a mistake.

It would have been bad enough merely if Michelangelo had seen it. But, worse, the man was back into his clothes and out the door almost before he came inside her - at least, thank God, she had insisted on a condom. April reached climax at the same time - she flushed with shame to remember it now - but she knew he had not cared one way or the other.

He left her in that degrading position, on her hands and knees, nude, with her yellow evening dress in a heap near her foot. She found her bra dangling over a chair where she had tossed it, but her panties were missing. Finally she realized the bastard had taken them. She wished she hadn't put on a fresh pair that evening.

That was the end of the flowers and the calls, of course. But that was just as well. Had he called April after that, she would have shouted things into the phone that would burn off her colleagues' ears, even with her door closed.

In hindsight it was all too clear the man had been more interested in sleeping with April O'Neil the reporter than in knowing April O'Neil the woman, though he was patient enough to fool her. That enraged her more than anything. April worked very hard to be taken seriously as a journalist, and she hated it when people saw her as just a pretty face. In some ways her life would be easier if she was plain. But - though she loathed to admit it - her looks helped her. People were more likely to watch the news when it was reported by an attractive woman, and that she certainly was.

She could imagine the sidelong winks and grins on Wall Street every time her broadcasts aired. For a good time, call April O'Neil and ask for an interview. At least no one had actually done so, so April could at least hope the man had mostly kept his bragging to himself.

She beat herself up for not being a better judge of people, especially given her profession, though she admitted the man had put on quite a performance. Ruefully, she thought that this was why she had no dating life. It would be a wintry day in hell before she went on another one.

She almost told Irma about it, but Irma had even less luck with dating than April did, so April felt bad about dumping her problems on Irma. She had wanted so much to talk to Michelangelo that night; he could always cheer her up.

Evidently April hadn't judged him very well either. And now, she knew with a sick certainty, she might never stop paying for the mistake she made that night.

Of course April had wondered what it would be like to date one of the turtles, but she had never seriously considered it. Once, at work, she received some mysterious flowers, which she assumed were sent by the turtles, and she hastened to their lair to dissuade them. And certainly she had never imagined something like this happening between her and one of them.

The real problem wasn't even the difference in species, but the age gap. April was a woman; the turtles were adolescent boys. She didn't know their exact ages in human terms, but that was where they were in their emotional development.

Though, April supposed, they were more mature and capable than any teenagers she had ever heard of. Teenagers could not have saved the world from multiple extradimensional invasions. Teenagers could not have provided April with exclusive coverage of epic stories that would immeasurably boost her career. Teenagers could not have saved April's life with such clockwork regularity - for example, when those mysterious flowers turned out to be a poisonous plant sent by the Shredder to murder her. Teenagers could not have become the center of April's life in the way the turtles had, so that she could not imagine her life without them.

All right, April admitted it, there had always been a certain temptation, but she usually put it down to gratitude. They had done so much for her; she was more grateful than she could ever show. In a way, she and they were too close for a romantic relationship.

And which of them would it be, and how would it make the others feel? It could poison her relationship with all of them.

Unless none of the others knew. Which was certainly a necessity of the situation in which April found herself.

And why, April wondered, did it have to be Michelangelo?

April knew of the torch he had always carried for her. It left her with a fine line to walk - being his friend, without leading him to expect more than she could give him. And April was not skilled at handling such things. So she had always been a little skittish around him.

To further complicate their relationship, Mike had personally saved April's life more than once. Twice during their vacation in Europe alone. He rescued her as she fell from a cliff in Ireland, and again when she was nearly boiled alive in a vat of cheese in Amsterdam. Both times, she had been too winded to even thank him, though she made sure to later.

If April were to date any of them, she thought she would have chosen Leonardo, but he was still in love with that Lotus woman. Raphael was too intense, and unlike Mike he made no effort to hide it. Donatello was more interested in technology than anything else. 

In many ways Michelangelo was the youngest of them. But, as Splinter had said, some of that shallow party dude persona was merely to disguise the stronger emotions beneath. And it had certainly taken in April. She had not seen, until too late, how deep those feelings were rooted or what dark fruit they might bear.

Finally her nails were done. She glanced at her watch and swore.

She raced back into the studio just in time to anchor the evening news broadcast, much to Vernon's disappointment.

*

"This is April O'Neil, Channel 6 News," said April on the TV. Her hair was a little disheveled; she sounded out of breath, as if she had been running.

"Check it out!" Don said. April was reading from a report that she held upright in front of her, clearly displaying her green-painted fingernails.

"I told you guys she loved me," Raph said.

"I hate to burst your bubble," Leo said with mock modesty, "but clearly she did that for yours truly."

"I seem to have heard this argument before," Splinter said, but he was smiling.

"You're right, sensei," Mike said. He had been in the dojo - he hadn't watched April's broadcasts with them in months, but now he pulled up a chair. He, too, was smiling, for the first time any of them could remember. "She meant it for you."

"It's just that green looks better on her," Raph said.

"Yeah," Leo said, watching April read her report. "It does look good on her."


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, April sat in her office working. Cold winter sunlight shafted in the windows and lit her hair to a fiery red. She was reading a company-wide memo from Thompson. Ratings were down and advertising revenue was falling. If the trend continued, layoffs might become necessary. All recipients were ordered to submit a memo with their suggestions for improving ratings by the end of next week.

April sighed. She was too busy for this; she would delegate it to Irma. Thanks to the faltering economy, Channel 6 was already understaffed, forcing everyone to work long hours. She wasn't worried about losing her own job; she had brought the company too many scoops over the years, thanks to the turtles. Including, she reminded herself, Michelangelo.

April tapped her green fingernails on the desk in an unconscious nervous drumbeat. She had considered removing the nail polish as soon as she finished her broadcast, but she figured Michelangelo would simply make her put it back on, and she decided she had better pick her battles.

There was a knock at the door. April tensed; then she realized Michelangelo had no reason to knock. "Come in."

It was Irma. She was carrying a large vase with what looked like two dozen long-stemmed yellow roses in it. "These came for you," Irma said. She sounded hesitant, as well she might. April hadn't confessed the details of her bad date to Irma, but Irma had the general picture.

"Keep them," April said shortly. She realized that wasn't fair to Irma. With an effort, she lightened her tone and smiled. "They'll look good on the reception desk."

"That's just what I was thinking," said Irma. "Do you want the card?"

April hesitated. If it was from Michelangelo, it might contain instructions of some kind, and she didn't want to ignore him. Or, at least, she didn't want him to repeat what he did the last time she ignored him. "Sure."

She opened the card. The outside was blank. On the inside, there was a heart drawn in green ink.

April said something that Irma was surprised to hear from her mouth. She did not offer to show Irma the card.

*

Mike knew April would be upset with him. He gave her a few days to cool off. Then he stopped by her office at the end of the day.

He hadn't given her long enough. She jumped out of her chair, strode toward him, and slapped him across the snout, hard enough to turn his head. "That's for the fright you gave me! I was right. You do hate me."

Mike could easily have avoided the blow - and they both knew it - but he didn't. April was too angry to care. He rubbed his neck, wincing. "I'm sorry, April. Really."

She folded her arms. "Not sorry enough to stop you from doing it!" Her face was flushed, with faint lines of anger around her mouth and a tiny crease between her eyebrows.

"I had to convince you."

"Well, you did. You scared the living daylights out of me. I hope you enjoyed it!" 

"I didn't."

"And then you have the nerve to send me flowers afterward? Go to hell!"

Michelangelo looked comically amazed. None of the turtles had ever heard April say so much as "damn". She herself couldn't recall using a four-letter word since a playground brawl when she was nine, after which she was sent home from school early and her mother washed out her mouth with soap. The sight of his stupefaction made April's anger recede, ever so slightly.

He turned serious again. "Look, I didn't send them to make fun of you, April."

April blew out a large breath, whisking aside a few stray strands of her red hair that had fallen across her face. Some more of her anger seemed to go out with it. April had the classic Irish temper - it ignited easily, burned hot and bright, and quickly flamed out.

But there remained her simmering resentment at her predicament. She set her hands on her hips. "Why, then?"

"To say - " To say a lot of things. He gestured to her hands. "That it looked good on you. All the guys said so. They miss you, by the way."

"I know. I keep telling myself that they're not like you." April was rubbing her hand.

Mike noticed that. He said, "You hurt yourself."

"Not as badly as you're hurting me."

He said, "Look, if you want to drop in on the guys, do it. If you don't want me there, I'll take a walk. They miss you."

"Maybe I will. Maybe I'll tell them what you're doing. And Splinter."

"Maybe they'd like those pictures too. They're teenagers, you know." Mike didn't enjoy saying that, but he knew there was nothing else he could say, unless he wanted to give her up here and now.

"Damn you," April said. Tears shone in her dark eyes again. That hurt Mike more than her words, but he took it as an admission that he was right.

April turned on her heel, walked back to her chair, and threw herself down in it. She said, "I am exhausted. I have been on my feet all day. I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on." Her voice was brittle. She took a deep breath. "You came here for something. Tell me what it is, so I can tell you to forget it, and then leave me alone."

He could work with that. He went to her side of the desk and knelt on the floor next to her chair. She watched him with a puzzled, annoyed look, but didn't back away. "What?"

Whether he had the upper hand or not, he wasn't going to touch her without at least saying so first. "Here, let me have your boots."

"Wh-what? You want me to walk home in my socks?"

He suppressed a sigh. "Just trust me, dudette."

She opened her mouth to say something else, closed it, and thrust her left foot at him - into his chest, actually. Her boots were made of white imitation doeskin and had a zipper down the side. He opened the zipper, pulled her boot off, then snagged her white sock, which came off as she yanked her foot away.

April tucked her bare foot under her chair and gave him an even more annoyed look. "If you tell me you have a foot fetish I am going to kick you out." Then she rolled her eyes at her own inadvertent choice of words.

"Never mind that. You said your feet hurt. So I'll rub them for you."

"You are not going to touch me!"

"April, it's just your foot."

She folded her arms. "I'll tell you a secret. Those boots don't breathe very well. I use foot powder, but..."

"Fine." He stood and walked out of her office, leaving the door ajar. April stared after him. Now what? She started to put her sock back on, then realized he still had it. She let out a frustrated growl.

He came back in, pushing the door closed with his shell. He was carrying a small plastic tub of soapy water and had several washcloths draped over his muscular arm.

"Where did you get that stuff?" she asked.

"The kitchen." The Channel 6 building had one on every floor.

"Please tell me no one saw you."

"Of course not. I'm a ninja." He knelt again and set the tub of soapy water on the floor under her chair, slopping a little over the sides. He made a come-here motion with his left hand. "Other boot."

April let out an immense sigh. "Fine. I give up." She let him take off her other boot and sock. Then she thrust both her feet into the tub, splashing him a little. She smirked. Then she remembered he was a turtle, and he liked surfing; getting wet was the last thing he would worry about.

The water was very hot, almost scalding. Which happened to be how April liked it. After a hard day at work, she liked to soak in her bathtub for an hour or more. She often took a book to read. Her apartment building had capacious hot water heaters, and she used them to full advantage, frequently adding more hot water to keep her bath as hot as she could stand it. It was one of her few indulgences. And - though she wasn't about to admit it to Michelangelo - her feet were pretty tired. She had spent most of her day out on location for a special feature.

So she let him wash her feet, while she pointedly turned back to the pile of work on her desk and did her best to ignore him. It wasn't easy. He scrubbed her feet briskly with one of the washcloths, rinsed them, then used another washcloth to dry them. If he was getting any weird enjoyment out of it, she wasn't able to discern it.

Once her feet were dry, he went to work massaging them. She opened her mouth to say something, then decided against it. She was tired of arguing with him, and this just wasn't worth another argument. And it would keep him out of her hair for a while longer. And she deserved some pampering, after what she had been through.

He was gentle, but not overly so. She realized she had once told him how much pressure she liked during a massage; obviously he remembered. She had also told him she disliked massage oil because she hated feeling greasy. Either he remembered that too, or he just hadn't brought any. But she suspected it was the former.

His hands were very strong, and his thick fingers were good at kneading muscle. His hands had some callouses, no doubt from years of gripping wooden nunchaku, but his skin felt more like a human's than she would have expected, and his touch was warm. April remembered one of the turtles telling her that their mutation had made them warm-blooded.

April felt the aches begin to seep out of her feet, her legs, even her lower back. The line of tension that seemed to be threaded between her shoulders, pulling them inward, began to relax. Without thinking, she wriggled her toes and then splayed them out, stretching them. Her breathing became deep and even. Her work seemed to fly by.

The sun went down before five o'clock at this time of year, so the office was long since dark; April was doing her work by the light of a small lamp. She glanced at the clock and realized more than an hour had passed. She looked down at her paperwork and was happily surprised to find she was almost finished. She had even drafted a reply to Thompson's memo. She hated paperwork and late nights at the office; she should have felt drained, ready to go home and soak in the bathtub. But again to her surprise, she realized she felt...not bad. A little sleepy.

She looked down. Mike was still intent on his work - he hadn't made a sound the whole time - but he felt the movement and looked up. She said, "Aren't you tired of doing that yet?" She was not about to thank him.

"Nope."

"Well, I'm done working. I'd like to go home now."

"All right." He gave her right foot a last squeeze, which felt too much like a gesture of affection for April's comfort, and let go.

"You still have my socks."

"One more thing first."

April's mouth thinned, but she was less irritated than she would have been an hour earlier. "Fine. What?"

"Let me see that bottle of nail polish."

"What do you - no. You are not going to paint my toes."

"All right, then you do it."

"Michelangelo, when was the last time you saw me wearing anything other than these boots? Even if I paint them, no one will see them. And you are really not going to make me wear sandals."

He hadn't actually planned to, but her statement made him ask, "Why not?"

April folded her arms. "Because it isn't professional. Plus, I don't like my feet."

He found himself glancing at her feet to see what she was talking about; she quickly tucked them up under her chair. But he'd been looking at them for the past hour. There was nothing unusual about them. Mike thought they seemed too small for her to balance on, especially considering she was taller than he was, and he had no idea why she needed five toes, but if anything they were cuter than most women's. He brushed it aside. "All right, then it'll be our secret."

April sighed; she was doing a lot of that these days. "Fine. It'll go faster if I do it, anyway. Lie on your stomach."

"What?"

"I need something to rest my feet on," she explained with exaggerated patience, "and there's nothing here with the right height, except your shell."

She was doing what he wanted, and not arguing too much, so he let it go. He lay flat, resting his head on his fist, and felt two little thumps on his shell as she put her heels on it.

"I hope you like lying on your tummy," April said, with a hint of dark amusement. "This takes a while, you know. I might need to put on three coats."

"Do as many as you want. I really don't get what you said earlier, by the way," he said. "Your feet are kinda cute."

"Shut up, Michelangelo," April said in a mock singsong. She put some cotton balls between her toes to separate them, then painted them as she had done for her fingernails the day before. When the last coat was dry, she swiveled her chair and lifted her feet off of Mike's shell. "Done. Socks, please."

He thought about checking to see what kind of a job she had done, but he'd pushed her enough for one day. He could see that she had done it; that was enough. He handed her her socks. She slipped them on, then her boots. She got up and marched out of her office without another word.

He supposed a fond "see you later" was a bit much to ask for.

*

April did stop by the lair that evening. The turtles were overjoyed to see her; they clustered around her, all talking at once. Mike did too, so as not to arouse suspicion. He hung around for a few minutes, saying little, then amiably excused himself. He walked out of the lair with more confidence than he felt. He knew April was pushing back at him, letting him know she could land him in a lot of hot water too, if she decided to. That was one reason he hadn't pushed her farther that afternoon.

He gave her a couple of hours. To his surprise, when he came back, she was still there. She was sitting on the lavender sofa in the living room, with Raphael on one side of her and Splinter on the other, watching an old movie and helping herself to the occasional handful of popcorn from the bowl Raph was holding. She and Raph both hated buttered popcorn; they always made some in the air popper and shared it. It made Mike feel good to see it. He had never meant to alienate April from his brothers. They needed each other.

Raph turned and saw him. His face darkened. "Hey, you're in a lot of trouble, mister!"

Mike's heart seemed to stop. He halted in his tracks.

Leo and Don walked in from the dojo, both out of breath from sparring. Leo had his sternest face on. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Michelangelo."

Don added, "I can't believe you did that to April."

Even Splinter shook his head gravely.

April looked at Mike with her arms folded. She let him hang for a moment, then said, "How could you?"

So it had all blown up in his face. Mike hung his head for a moment, then lifted it to meet their expectant gazes. He would take what he had coming. "I'm sorry, you guys. I really am. I can explain."

"Don't bother," Leo said coldly. "April told us everything."

"Naw, let him talk," Raph said. "The least he can do is tell us his side of it."

Mike glanced at April. She looked back at him without expression. He didn't want to embarrass her further, but there was no way to tell the story without talking about the pictures. Surely she had mentioned them. He said, "It started that one night when I - "

" - you got the munchies," April finished for him. "And then you ate the last slice of banana and sausage!"

His brothers erupted in laughter. April came over and threw her arm around him and squeezed his shoulders and poked him in the belly, less gently than she could have. She gave him a hint of a sadistic smile and said, "You know that's my favorite kind, Michelangelo! Just because I haven't been over in a while is no excuse!"

Mike laughed too, not just from relief, but because he knew she was watching his reaction, and because he had to admire a good practical joke - he played them on his brothers all the time. And April had certainly repaid him in his own coin. He put his arms around her, picked her up, whirled her around once, and set her down. She didn't squeal with laughter, the way she used to when he did that, but there might have been the smallest tug at one side of her mouth. He said, "Don't worry, dudette. I'll go get you another."

"Just don't order it from that Weird Pizza joint," Raph said. "The last time we did that, it never showed up."

"I heard they hired some surfer dude for their delivery boy," Don said. "I could have told them what a dumb idea that was."

They all laughed again. He smiled, as he hadn't in a long time, and went to call in their orders. He took the Starcruiser to go pick them up.

April must have been hungry; she ate two slices. When she went home, most of the awkwardness of her absence of the last few weeks had been erased. Mike had no doubt she was still angry with him, to say the least, but it was progress. He wished he could have taken her home. He wanted to see that she got home safe.

The phone rang. Don answered it. He smiled and said "Good to hear. You too," and hung up. "That was April," he told them, "just letting us know she made it home safe. And saying thanks for having her over."


	7. Chapter 7

April had to work late in her office again the next day. It had rained on and off all day, and she had again spent most of her day outside. Her yellow rain slicker hung on a coat rack in the corner, and her large yellow umbrella leaned against a wall nearby; there were small pools of water under each of them. Right now it was raining again; she could hear its steady drumming on the windows, and the swoosh of tires on the dark wet pavement below.

April found herself glancing at the clock repeatedly. That made no sense, because she could leave any time she wanted - she was only working late tonight so she would not have to come in over the weekend.

She found herself wondering whether Michelangelo would show up again. Wondering? That wasn't the right word. Dreading. Okay, maybe she wasn't dreading it either. She had again spent most of the day on her feet, and they hurt. She cut off that thought. She was not going to ask him to rub them again.

She looked down at the report she was reading. She had read the same page several times without absorbing a word of it. She also realized she had taken her boots off; she hardly remembered doing it. It was just to rest her feet, she told herself, ignoring that she never took her boots off at work. She wriggled her toes, as if to convince herself.

April liked things to happen according to schedule. Her years of chasing news stories, of which the least expected were the most valuable, had not cured her of this need for order. She decided that was what was bothering her. She just wanted to know whether Michelangelo would show up or not. The waiting, the uncertainty seemed worse than whatever he might want from her.

When - if - he showed up, she would ask him to decide on a usual time for these visits, so she would at least know when to expect him. Then she realized that would just encourage him to show up more often. She sighed and decided to say nothing.

The door opened. It was Michelangelo. He had shown up at the same time as the day before. He was carrying the small plastic tub of soapy water and the washcloths again.

April realized she was wriggling her toes again. She put it down to nervousness.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Nice to see you too," he said. He took off his woolen scarf and hung it on her coat rack.

"Give me those pictures and then I'll be happy to see you. Otherwise - " she pointed at the door.

"Bad day, huh?"

She folded her arms. "If you must know, yes. And you're not helping."

He walked over to her desk - her side of it, which annoyed her - and knelt beside her chair and set the tub of soapy water on the floor.

"I do not need you to rub my feet again," she said.

"Your boots are already off. Might as well."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. If it'll make you feel better, go ahead. I have work to do."

So he took her socks off and gave her the same treatment he had the day before, and again she found herself breezing through paperwork that had seemed as thick as waist-deep mud before Michelangelo arrived.

To April's surprise, he stopped before she asked him to. She realized she was frowning, and quickly hid it. She glanced at the clock. Well, he had been doing it for most of an hour. She still had work left to do, though. She sighed as she wondered what she would have to put up with to keep him busy now. She flexed her right foot. It had been aching all afternoon, but now the ache was almost gone.

She watched him take a comb out of a pocket in his trenchcoat. "Now what?" she asked.

"I'm going to comb out your hair," he said. Despite her umbrella, the wind and rain had dampened her hair and blown it every which way, which made it tangle. She disliked wearing hats or hoods, as they flattened her hair, and she considered its usual lushness to be part of her look.

"What is this, a spa?" April had taken a few minutes that afternoon to try to comb out the tangles, with little success. She had planned to take a long hot shower and put conditioner in her hair and untangle it when she got home. She added, "If you pull on my tangles I will scream."

But he didn't. He took the tub back to the kitchen and refilled it with warm water, which he used to dampen her hair, dabbing at her forehead with a washcloth to make sure none of it ran down her face. It was still a distraction, but not too much of one.

The comb was a wide-toothed one, and he drew it through her hair slowly and carefully, starting from the ends, working his way back to the roots. When he found a tangle, he dampened it with a few drops of coconut oil - so April guessed from the scent - and went to work unraveling it. His large, blunt fingers worked with surprising delicacy. April disliked having oil of any kind on her body or in her hair, but she decided she could tolerate one that smelled good.

"Michelangelo," she said. Her own voice surprised her by how dreamy it sounded. "How did you learn to do this? You don't have hair."

"I went to the library."

April pictured Michelangelo at the New York Public Library, leafing through cosmetology textbooks. She giggled. She said, "Wait, you went to the library just to learn how to comb out my hair?"

"Well, I saw you on the news earlier, standing out in the weather, so I figured you might need it. Besides, I always wanted to." He ran his fingers lightly through her hair. "I always thought your hair was cool."

April had to agree with him. She had always been a little vain about her hair. She would have liked it to be a more fiery red, but she was just glad to have red in it at all. She said, "At least you knew better than to ask Irma." Irma, of course, would have asked herself how many other human women Michelangelo knew, and the list was very short.

The rounded teeth of the comb stroked gently over April's scalp. She was very sensitive there, and also in her face, her ears, and her neck. Her eyelids were growing heavy. She had a habit of falling asleep at the salon. She liked having someone else wash her hair and would have loved for a man to do it. Well, a man who wasn't a jerk. A man who honestly cared about making her feel good. Like Mich-

Wait, had she really been about to think that?

The phone rang, jerking April out of her near trance. She shuddered all over, releasing her pent-up reaction to the sensations she was feeling all at once. Tingles shot through her body.

She picked up the phone. The corner of her mouth felt damp; she realized she was nearly drooling. She said "Hello," but no sound came out. She tried again. This time she succeeded, though her voice sounded drowsy. She listened, and then said, "Yes, I'd be delighted. Thank you. Eight o'clock. See you then. Bye." She hung up and sighed.

"Who was that?" Michelangelo said.

"None of your business!" April said.

"April, after how all this started, you know I don't want you to date anyone, right?"

"That's none of your business either." At least, April thought, he hadn't said "anyone else". She said, "Anyway, you don't have to worry. I'm not exactly sold on men at the moment." She gave him a dark look over her shoulder. "Present company included."

He said nothing, just went back to combing her hair. He had unraveled almost all of her tangles. She went back to reading. After a while she said, "If you must know, it was one of my contacts, inviting me to a party Saturday night. I don't want to go, but I have to."

"Don't, then."

She sighed. "I have to, Michelangelo. I'm a reporter. I need contacts. If you had a job you would understand."

"I've been thinking of getting another one."

"You could open a hair salon," she quipped. Then she was annoyed at herself for complimenting him.

She noticed, though, he sounded more serious than usual. When he suggested she not go to the party, she had the distinct feeling he was offended at the thought of her having to do anything she didn't want to. Which would be ironic, considering the situation he had put her in. He had also mentioned, back when all this started, that he had taken that first job partly to impress her. That wasn't the best reason, but she supposed it was better than nothing.

When April finished, it was nearly eight o'clock. She was exhausted. She had been working for nearly twelve hours. Her evening was shot; she wanted nothing more than to fall into her bed. She was hungry, but it seemed like too much trouble to do anything about it. She groaned at the mere thought of driving home.

As it turned out, she didn't have to.

Michelangelo walked her to the elevator. There were still several other people at work in the building, going by the light coming from under their office doors. He knew his disguise wouldn't stand up to close inspection. He left April at the elevator and told her to get in the passenger seat of her van and wait for him. She inclined her head in a way that was neither a nod or a shake, but she seemed too tired to argue. He jogged down the flights of stairs to the basement, half expecting to find nothing there but a cloud of exhaust, but she had done as he asked.

He got into the driver's seat; she had put the keys in the ignition. He drove her back to her apartment building. It wasn't that late yet, so he had no trouble finding a spot along the curb in front. April was dozing, so he woke her. He got out, walked around the van, opened her door, and walked her to the front door of her building.

She turned and faced him. "You are not coming in with me, in case you're wondering." She tried to sound stern, but the effect was ruined by a huge yawn. "I am going to bed."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"No." Her stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly.

He said, "Actually, I called in an order at Vinnie's after I dropped you at the elevator. I could go pick it up."

April sighed. She was going to bed early, and she knew from experience that if she didn't eat, she would wake up hungry in the middle of the night and be unable to go back to sleep. And her refrigerator was nearly empty. She had meant to stop by the grocery store on the way home, but...

"Fine," she said. She took the van key off her key ring and gave it to him, then put her building key in the front door and opened it. He started back to the van. She said to his back, "And then stop - " She searched for the right word and then waved her hands, frustrated. " - presuming." He raised a hand without turning around, which told her he heard her without telling her whether he would listen. Her stomach rumbled again, more loudly. "Oh, shush," she told it, as she went inside.

In her apartment, April stripped off her clothes and took the hot shower she had been craving all day after standing out in the cold and wind and rain. She closed her eyes and turned her face up into the hot spray and ran her fingers through her hair several times, noting absently that not a single tangle remained.

She had just finished wrapping her hair in a towel when she heard a knock at the door. She threw on her bathrobe and went to the door and looked through the peephole; it was Michelangelo with the pizza.

She left the chain on as she opened the door; she was not about to let him in while she was wearing nothing but a bathrobe. Even if he already knew what she looked like beneath it, she thought darkly. She knew he could force the door open if he wanted to, but she also knew he wouldn't. There was about an inch and a half between the door and the jamb. "Slip it through," she said. He did. "Hold on," she said, "I'll get you a twenty."

But when she returned with it, he was gone. She shrugged and put the money back in her purse. At least he had used the front door as she had asked him to. She had expected him to climb down the fire escape and tap at her living room window. But then, that window had unpleasant associations for both of them now.

She stacked three paper plates from the kitchen, set the pizza box on top of yesterday's New York Times to keep the grease off her coffee table, and sprawled on her couch. The pizza filled the apartment with a delicious smell. She wondered what kind he had gotten her. She opened the box. Half banana and sausage, half green peppers and pineapple. Those were her two favorite kinds; he hadn't known which she was in the mood for, so he had covered the bases.

Also, he had drawn a huge green heart on the inside of the pizza box lid. To her own surprise, April smiled. Thankfully no one was there to see it.

She ate a slice and passed out on the couch. She awoke an hour or so later, put the rest of the pizza in the refrigerator, and stumbled off to bed. She slept for a disgraceful, but delicious, nine hours. When she woke up, it took her a moment to figure out what smelled so good. It was the coconut oil Michelangelo had put in her hair; it had seeped into her pillow during the night.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day, April found herself in her office at the expected time. She had again been out on location for much of the day, and she had, without quite realizing it, rushed her last shoot a little and driven back to the Channel 6 building with more than her usual haste.

She sat at her desk, and started reading the papers in her in box, and tried to look as if she had been drudging for hours. Then she realized she was still wearing her jacket. She got up and went over to coat rack and hung her jacket on it. The day was cold and damp, but thankfully not wet and windy like yesterday.

Five minutes after the usual time, April found herself glancing at the clock for the tenth time. She hadn't read a word of the memo she was holding. She flipped open her turtle-comm. "April calling turt-uh, Michelangelo. Come in, Michelangelo."

After a moment, Michelangelo's face appeared. He smiled to see her. "Hey, dudette." He sounded a little out of breath.

"Hey, where are you?" April said. "You're late."

"I'm on my way. Had to stop a robbery."

"What?" April was on her feet. "Michelangelo, why didn't you call me?"

"It's only a few minutes."

"You know what I mean. Why didn't you call me so I could come cover it?"

"It was just a convenience store."

Reluctantly, April saw he was right. That wasn't worth dragging her out of her office over. Convenience store robberies were a dime a dozen; even on a slow day, Channel 6 would rather poach some national or world story from their parent network.

She said, "Are you all right?" She felt ashamed of herself. That should have been her first question. Even with what was going on between them.

He smiled. "This is me you're talking to, remember? But thanks. See you in a few."

A few minutes later he walked in, carrying the usual tub of soapy water and washcloths.

"I spent most of today sitting in meetings," April said. "I don't need my feet rubbed. I suppose you can if you want to, though."

He did, for about half an hour. Then he got to his feet and stood behind her. "Shoulders," he said.

She shrugged. By now she was used to him touching her. And her shoulders and neck and back all felt tense. Sitting all day was no easier on her body than standing all day. He went to work kneading her shoulder muscles. That meant his hands were closer to her breasts than she would have liked, but she didn't expect him to wander out of bounds. He was gentlemanly to her, in his strange way.

If he had asked to do this at the start, she might have refused, she realized. As usual, having her feet rubbed made her feel better, more relaxed, more receptive. She supposed she could get used to such treatment, though she would hardly have paid this price for it. She reminded herself that she had no choice.

As with combing her hair, Michelangelo surprised April by how good he was at rubbing her shoulders, finding and releasing little knots of tension she had not even realized were there.

"Don't tell me you learned how to do this at the library too." April's voice was soft, and a little slurred.

"When you fight for a living, you learn this stuff," he said.

April O'Neil did not have many weaknesses. She rarely drank, did not smoke, and was assiduous about maintaining her trim figure. Yes, she ate the occasional slice of pizza with the turtles, but aside from that her diet was a careful one, and she rarely allowed herself sweets. And chasing news stories, especially those related to the turtles, gave her plenty of exercise.

But April was something of a glutton for this kind of personal attention. And with the constant demands of her job and her solitary lifestyle, it was not a need she could indulge very often. It had been months since she had felt this kind of affectionate touch, which made her even more susceptible to it.

And certainly none of her human boyfriends had pampered her like -

Wait, what? Michelangelo was not her boyfriend. Even if he acted like it.

April was having trouble keeping quiet and still. Despite her need to be touched, she was hesitant to let people do it, because her body had a way of responding on its own. And the last few days had worn down her self-control. And for April, physical sensations and emotions were closely connected. Feelings she did not quite understand or want to acknowledge were flooding her senses. She was finding it impossible not to respond with little "mm"s and "ah"s and sharp intakes of breath and tiny motions of her body.

Without thinking about it, she was letting him know what she liked, so he would do more of it. If he kneaded too hard, or in the wrong place, she winced or gave him a subtle "hm-mm". April was a very vocal person, and had chosen her profession partly out of her need to express herself; so the sounds she made not only revealed her enjoyment but reinforced it. And Michelangelo was clearly paying attention; after a while, his movements felt almost as if he were reading her thoughts, and somehow this seemed quite unsurprising to her.

Her eyes drifted closed; she gave up any pretense of working. It occurred to her to wonder, after what Michelangelo had done to her, why she didn't feel tense and angry. She could only be going to sleep if she felt safe. And she did feel safe. Even when his hands moved inward from her shoulders and began massaging the back and sides of her neck and behind her ears and under her jaw. God, no one ever massaged her there. Her neck was long and slim and she supposed it seemed fragile. But, of course, he knew just how to -

She felt herself being shaken gently. She awoke with a start. She was resting her head on her crossed arms on her desk. She had drooled onto the report she was supposed to be reading. She reached for a tissue, but she missed and knocked the box to the floor.

Michelangelo retrieved the box for her and she took a tissue and dabbed at her mouth. She glanced at the clock. She had been out for half an hour.

"Sorry," she said, though she had no idea why she was apologizing. Her voice sounded rusty; she cleared her throat. "Guess I should go home."

"I'll take you."

She nodded.

When she stood she noticed her panties were a little damp. She was very glad her jumpsuit hid that.

He drove her home and walked her up to her building. She opened the front door and didn't tell him to leave, so he followed her up to her apartment. She put her key in the door and opened it. She turned and said, "Michelangelo..." She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but then gave a tiny shake of her head. "Thanks for the ride."

"You want me to comb out your hair again," he said. It wasn't a question.

April's voice was very small. "Yes."

She opened the door and let him into her apartment.

She turned on the radio, which as always was set to a classical station. She rarely watched television at home. Whenever she did, she felt compelled to turn to the news, where she might see some other reporter with a story that should have been hers; and even if she resisted the urge to run out and chase it, it would spoil her relaxation.

She tugged one end of the couch a few feet away from the wall, then sprawled on it. Michelangelo stood behind her, underneath the two paintings of black cats, and combed out her hair, as they listened to a Bach cello suite.

*

The alarm woke her at six. For a moment, April wasn't sure where she was. She sat up, and realized she was in her bed, under her white sheets and her heavy cream-colored blanket. She was wearing her nightgown.

The last thing she remembered was falling asleep on the couch. She got out of bed and hurried to the closet. She had meant to do her laundry the night before; she was out of clean jumpsuits. She had no idea what she was going to wear today.

But her jumpsuits, and her other clothes, were hung neatly in the closet. She took the sleeve of one and brought it to her face; it smelled fresh and clean. It wasn't even wrinkled. She opened the top drawer of her dresser. Her underclothes were all there, neatly folded. Michelangelo had done her laundry last night, after he put her to bed.

She wanted to call him, wake him up, and ask him how he had gotten her out of her jumpsuit and into her nightgown. But she already knew what he would say: "I'm a ninja, remember?"

For an instant she wondered if he had taken any liberties with her, but she dismissed the idea almost before it occurred to her. She certainly had not worried about it the night before, had she? She felt safe with him. How strange was that?

She went into the bathroom to take a shower. She was not very surprised to see a large green heart drawn on the mirror, though she wondered where he had found that color lipstick. She realized her reflection was smiling at her, her pretty face framed by a tousled mop of reddish-brown hair and by the green heart.

Usually, April disliked getting up in the morning, but today she felt wonderfully well rested and energetic. She even skipped her morning cup of coffee and arrived at work early.

*

That afternoon, however, when Mike arrived at April's office at the usual time, he found her waiting with her arms folded.

"Michelangelo," she said, "we need to talk."

He groaned theatrically. "You can't pull that one on me. We're not even together." April noticed he didn't say "yet".

"I don't mean that. I want to know just what you want from me."

He studied her and then braced himself and said, "Fair enough. I want to see you."

"See me?" April's tone was less sure now.

Mike meant he wanted to date her; to have the same chance with her that other man had, even if it didn't work out. But the troubled look on her face - he had a moment of panic, and without knowing why, said, "Without the jumpsuit."

April looked a little surprised, but the look faded at once. Her lips thinned. "I thought you did last night." Not to mention before that.

He met her eyes. "I looked as little as I could."

"You undressed me by feel? Great. Thanks, Michelangelo." 

"Well, you kept talking in your sleep about needing to do the laundry. I promised to do it and then you smiled and didn't say anything else. It was super cute. After that I had to do it."

"Fine. But I am not going to strip for you like a whore."

"I don't want you to. I know you're not a - " He shrugged. Splinter had raised him too well to use a word like that in front of her, even if she said it first. "I just want to see you." Somehow it seemed impossible now to back up, to explain what he really meant.

"You mean, without having to spy on me."

"Yeah. And - " And without having to see you with someone else, he thought. "And I didn't think you'd be okay with me doing it," he said instead.

"Well, I won't do it."

He just looked at her.

"And you won't do it either." April allowed herself a smile. "You know, if you had asked me to at the beginning, I might have done it. Probably not, but maybe. But now I know better. You need me. You know if you show anyone those pictures then I'll never speak to you again, and you couldn't stand that."

Mike had been expecting something like this, though not looking forward to it. April was right, of course. And he could hardly blame her for pushing back at him.

But the hint of mockery in her voice brought back the old sick hollow feeling in his gut that had lived there ever since he saw her with that other man. April had been happy enough to undress for that man, who used her and discarded her. But Mike didn't count. To April, what Mike felt for her was just something to be amused at. It was just as well he hadn't asked her for what he really wanted. She would have laughed in his face, which he couldn't bear.

"April - " He sighed. "Do we have to argue about this again? I'd really rather not."

She misunderstood his reluctance. She folded her arms. "There's nothing to argue about."

His shoulders slumped. "I don't have to give them to Fenwick. I could just let him see them. Then he'd know, but he'd have no proof. Thompson would just laugh at him if he said anything." He felt a dull pain in his chest every time he said something like that.

April closed her eyes and said nothing for a minute. When she did speak, her voice trembled. "I am such a fool. I almost let myself believe you care about me. I almost let myself forget what you're really like."

Mike wanted to reply that he did care about her, but the words caught in his throat. They sounded empty and false. But I do, he told himself fiercely. But I'll never have April, April O'Neil, April who gave herself freely to that other man, and that's all I want.

April rested her head atop her crossed arms on her desk. "Go away, please." Her voice was muffled. "I need to be alone."

Mike wanted to stay, to somehow make it better, but he knew that was absurd; if he stayed he would make it worse. He went out and closed the door gently behind him. He hesitated outside the door, worried that he would hear her crying, but he didn't. After a minute or so, he slipped away.

*

That night, Mike dreamt he was back in the mansion of the deranged billionaire Monroe Flem. He and his brothers, flash-frozen, watched helplessly as April, hanging from a chain with her hands bound behind her back, was lowered, screaming, into the vat of hot wax.

Irma arrived, too late, and freed them, even as she wept uncontrollably at the loss of her best friend. Mike and his brothers, blind with rage, smashed and sliced their way through Flem's army of robots. Mike himself leapt at Flem, wrapped his nunchaku around the madman's throat like a garotte, and gave a single savage twist that nearly parted the head from the body. Flem's purple face twisted with laughter even as he died.

The turtles sobbed as they reverently lifted April's still form out of the vat and laid it upon the floor. Somehow, the wax statue she had become captured not only her beauty but her bravery, her intelligence, her kindness. Mike was overcome with guilt. It was his fault April would never laugh again, never cry again. He should have done more to protect her. Now she was beyond the reach of love or regret.

But, worse, Mike somehow knew April was still alive, but forever entombed. The turtles could never break open her wax shell or she would die, like a mermaid pulled from the depths of the sea. They could not grieve for her, because she was not gone, but they could not embrace her, talk to her, hear her laugh. She would always be there, and yet not there.

His eyes snapped open. His whole being felt weak with horror and relief. He curled into a fetal position around his pillow, as if it were her, as if by this he could assure himself that she was all right, that it was just a nightmare.

Slowly his grip on the pillow relaxed. He rolled over and looked at the clock, the one April had given them; its numerals glowed in the dark. It was just past five. April wouldn't even be awake yet.

Mike had had nightmares before, especially about April. But this one was different. It came mostly from his own guilt, that was obvious. But his other nightmares lost their grip on him almost as soon as he woke up. This one stayed with him. He had an overwhelming urge to call her on her turtle-comm, to make sure she was okay, even though she was furious with him. He was not superstitious - none of them were, except maybe for Splinter, and Splinter's inexplicable flashes of intuition had a way of proving right.

He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the others. He left the lair and went up to the surface, where it was still dark. He made his way across town to her apartment, uneasily aware of what had happened the last time he looked in on her unexpectedly.

He got there at about five-thirty. He crouched on the roof of the next building, watching her window, shivering in the cold before dawn despite his trenchcoat. At five after six her light came on.

She came out of her apartment, alone, just after seven. Mike told himself he wasn't checking to make sure she was alone, just that she was okay. He mostly believed it. April got into her Channel 6 van and drove off to work. He couldn't keep up with her - traffic wasn't heavy enough yet - but it wasn't far to the Channel 6 building. There, too, the light was on in her office window, and he could just see the reddish bell of her hair through it. That made him feel a little better.

He didn't know, though, how he was going to make amends.


	9. Chapter 9

The turtles did not have large repertoires of moves. As Splinter said, one move practiced a thousand times was better than a thousand moves practiced one time each. Mike had seen Donatello's bo coming toward him in this way more times than he could count, but his muscles were tired, and he was a shade too slow. The bo was padded, of course, but it sent Mike to the mat hard. Automatically he rolled away, barely evading Don's follow-up strike, and came to his feet at the edge of the mat. His hands tightened on his nunchaku. The first turtle to step off the mat in morning practice earned the chore of washing the dishes after breakfast.

"Stop," Splinter said, raising a paw. "Raphael, you will take Michelangelo's place. Michelangelo, I will speak with you alone."

Mike followed Splinter out of the dojo, hearing the grunts and thuds of Raph and Don sparring. Ordinary teenagers would have only pretended to fight, while they strained their ears to overhear Mike's chastisement, but of course his brothers weren't like that. Before he took those pictures of April, he would have said he wasn't like that either.

They went into the kitchen, which was empty at the moment. "You have been neglecting your training," Splinter said.

Mike nodded. He did not apologize; Splinter had no use for empty words.

"Perhaps it is because you have been spending so much time with April," Splinter said.

Mike was too surprised to lie - which he would not have anyway. "Yes, sensei. But how - "

Splinter gave him a hint of a paternal smile. "Do you think me so naive? You vanish for hours at a time and return late at night carrying her scent."

"She doesn't wear - "

Splinter held up a paw. "Not perfume. Her scent. Were I human, I could not detect it. But to this - " he tapped his snout - "hers is most distinctive. Lemon blossom and sandalwood, I think."

Mike had to smile at that. If April had such a scent, he had never noticed it, though as a turtle he had a fine sense of smell. Maybe Splinter was kidding him, as he sometimes liked to do.

"But more than that," Splinter said, "is the way you smile whenever someone speaks of her. I once knew someone who made me smile in the same way - usually, as my own master pointed out to me, when I was supposed to be studying."

Mike was slightly embarrassed - not by Splinter knowing his feelings, but because he was not sure he deserved to have them dignified in this way after what he had done to April. "In Japan?"

"Yes. Her name was Tang Shen."

Not is. Was. Splinter had never spoken of her before. Mike felt a little ashamed. Splinter carried the same burden as Mike, and more, and did so more stoically. He was about to ask what had happened, but Splinter closed the subject.

"It was long ago," Splinter said. "As to April...I had thought her heart was her own, and no one else's. It seems I was mistaken. So I shall not presume to give you romantic advice. As to your training, however..."

Mike would never have spoken over him, but Splinter paused for a moment, and Mike seized it. "Sensei, forgive me," Mike said. "Sometimes you have - premonitions. About one of us, or about Shredder."

If Splinter was surprised at the seeming non sequitur, he did not show it. "That is true."

"This intuition thing...does it include April?"

Splinter thought for a moment. "I am afraid not. She is a dear friend, but you and the others are my sons, and Saki is my ancient enemy. It seems only such a strong bond, whether good or ill, can yield these flashes of insight. I have yet to see April in one of them." The dark eyes regarded Michelangelo. "Have you?"

"I don't know if that's what it was." Mike told Splinter of his dream.

"Hm," Splinter said. "Dreams have a way of illuminating the things that are dark to the waking mind. Things that hide in the twilight at the edges of awareness. Perhaps you have seen something, heard something, that failed to arouse your suspicions at the time. Perhaps your mind has shown you, in the guise of a past danger, one that instead lies ahead."

Mike nodded somberly. "I was thinking the same thing."

"Then your path seems clear. Watch over her, but at the expense of your leisure activities, not your training. You will be of little help to her if you are overmatched."

"You're right, sensei."

"You cannot guard her twenty-four hours a day, of course. When you are not with her, we will all take turns checking in on her. Unobtrusively, of course. It will be good practice."

Mike was surprised. "I appreciate that. But you don't have to - "

Splinter raised a paw. "I am not being sentimental. I trust your instincts." Splinter smiled. "After all, I trained you."

Mike put his hands together and bowed deeply. "Thank you, sensei."

"Michelangelo."

Mike turned back. "Yes?"

"April has a dangerous life, the more so because of her friendship with us. She would have it no other way."

Mike nodded. April would readily endanger herself before she would give up on a story. He knew there was no way to change that without taking something vital away from her.

Splinter laid a paw on his shoulder. "It grieves me to say it...but the day might come when we cannot protect her."

Mike was not religious - Splinter was not, and he had not raised his sons to be - but the words came to his mind unbidden all the same: God forbid.

The worst moments of his life had not been spent struggling to free himself from Shredder's anti-mutagen death trap, or wondering whether Splinter would forget his sons when he was changed back into a human, or even seeing April with another man. They had been spent watching, helpless, as April lay in Splinter's bed, poisoned, comatose, dying, her chest barely rising and falling, a terrible silence after every ragged breath, until he was sure there would not be another. He had been afraid even to speak; her life had seemed as a flickering candle that the least breeze could still.

He looked at Splinter, wanting him to take the words back, to say April was different, that the risks faced by the turtles did not apply to her, even though he knew it was childish.

"I tell you this," Splinter said, "only so you will not forget every moment with her is a gift. When I was your age, I thought we - I had all the time in the world. If someone had told me then..." He did not mention Shen again; he didn't need to.

Now Mike found himself wishing he could comfort Splinter, somehow. But Splinter clapped him on the shoulder, as if to say it was all right. "Back to your exercises, my son."

Mike returned to the dojo, and began performing his kata, as Splinter had taught him, as if he were doing them for the first time. That was Splinter, Mike thought. He wouldn't yell at you or even say he was disappointed in you. He would just find a reason to make you want to do better.

*

Later that day, April sat at her desk at work, shifting in her chair. Her back and shoulders ached. She made a point of not looking at the clock, but from the light coming through the window behind her, she knew it was near the usual time.

Someone knocked. April looked up warily. "Come in."

It was Irma. She was carrying something. "Another present," she said.

But it wasn't flowers this time. It was a stuffed Paddington bear, wearing a yellow jumpsuit that looked like April's, and a pair of white boots. A press card was stuck in the band of its hat, a miniature notepad in its right pocket, and a toy camera was secured by a strap around its right paw.

The first Paddington bear book came out the year before April was born. Her father brought it back from one of his trips to England, and she asked him to read it to her often, though she was too young to understand all of it. On a later trip, he brought her a stuffed Paddington bear, from which she at once became inseparable. That one had a blue duffel coat instead of a yellow jumpsuit like this one. It was lost during one of the family's moves, and though April was too old for stuffed animals by then, she was heartbroken over it for a long time afterward. She must have mentioned it to Michelangelo, though she couldn't remember when.

She wondered where he had even found a Paddington bear dressed like this. She tugged at one of the boots and noticed it came off. That was unusual for a stuffed animal - usually the clothes were sewn on. He went to a baby store, she realized, to find the clothes. She couldn't help but smile at the idea of Michelangelo in a baby store looking for a tiny yellow jumpsuit and white boots.

"There was a card, too," Irma said cautiously.

April took a deep breath. "All right." Irma handed her the card. April had a thought. "Irma, who delivers this stuff, anyway?" She didn't think Michelangelo was foolish enough to do it himself, but...

"The usual kid from Midtown Florist," Irma said. "Whoever sends these, he's nice. He sent me some gorgeous lilies this time, I guess so I wouldn't feel left out." She smiled. "Is he handsome? Not that I would ever cut in on you, of course."

That question caught April off guard. She hadn't really thought about it. She didn't want to now, either. "I suppose," she said, "but sometimes he acts like a jerk."

"Oh," Irma said. "Well, don't put up with that. You deserve a prince. Anyway, I'll pump you for details later. I have to get back to the desk before Burne wonders where I went." She closed the door behind her.

April opened the card. It read: "I'm sorry for what I said. I want to see you because I think you're beautiful. And because I was jealous that someone else got to, but I didn't want to say so." The only signature was a tiny green heart.

April leaned back in her chair and sighed. Then she winced and rubbed her neck, which had been painfully stiff all day. She must have slept wrong. She flipped open her turtle-comm and called Michelangelo.

"You're late," she said when he answered. She was tired and hungry and nervous about what she was tacitly agreeing to do. "I'm going home." She was not looking forward to having to stop at the store. A thought occurred to her. "Bring some dinner. And not pizza."

Her irritable surrender was enough for Michelangelo. "I'll meet you there," he said.


	10. Chapter 10

Michelangelo appeared at April's apartment door carrying a large brown paper bag, which he brought into the kitchen. April was expecting delicatessen food.

To her mounting outrage, he took out a package of chicken breasts, a bag of rice, a sack of potatoes, a bag of chilled dough, two lemons, a large sweet onion, a bottle of olive oil, a stick of butter, a bag of spinach leaves, some chopped nuts, some dried fruits, and various spices.

"Michelangelo, on top of everything else, I am not going to cook for you!" she said, her fists knotted at her side. For the moment she was too incensed to care whether he threatened to show the pictures around. Making her undress for him was bad enough, but making her into a housewife was going too far.

He looked surprised. "Didn't say you were, dudette. I know you don't like cooking."

She looked at the spread of food on the counter, then at him. "Since when can you cook?"

"I'm taking classes." He was looking through her drawers and cupboards; pots and pans clattered as he pulled out various implements and tossed them onto the counter.

April leaned against the refrigerator and folded her arms. "Taking - " She shook her head. "To impress me?"

"It'll help out at home, too," he said. He took a couple of potatoes, scrubbed them under the faucet, deftly cut the eyes out, poked them with a fork, rubbed them with olive oil, and sprinkled them with salt and pepper. "Don tries it, sometimes, but he's more interested in making machines to do it for him. The last one nearly blew up the lair. And Master Splinter would be happy to live on rice and sushi."

April was frowning as she watched him work. She was not used to hearing Michelangelo talk about taking on responsibility. Which reminded her - "How's the job hunt going?"

"I figure - " The oven beeped, announcing it was preheated. He put the potatoes in it, then began melting butter in a saucepan. "I figure I'd better get some skills first. Once I get this down, say, I can get a job as a chef. Not for the rest of my life, of course. Though I guess I can't just go to NYU and become the next Gordon Gekko, either."

April darted a look at him, but of course he couldn't know he'd hit a tender spot. She said, "But you have a skill. You're a ninja."

"Yeah, but saving the world from Shredder and Krang doesn't pay like it used to. I keep telling the guys we need to unionize." He paused in chopping the onion and took in her posture. "I'll rub your back after dinner."

"You will not," she said automatically, standing straighter, even as she thought: that sounds wonderful.

He shrugged. "Well, why don't you get off your feet? I should be done in about half an hour."

April decided he was right. She was tired. She sank into her couch and read the Times. The couch was next to the kitchen, which had a pass-through, and every so often she watched him through it. Her kitchen was little more than a galley, but he moved in it easily - stirring something here, tasting something there. Before long, smells began drifting to her - good ones, lemon and saffron and baking bread. April was not used to that in her own apartment. Her stomach rumbled.

She was having trouble concentrating on the Times. She noticed he had slowed down and was now mostly just watching things cook. "Are you about done in there?"

"Yeah, it just needs another ten minutes or so."

"Fine." April stood. Her voice was a little unsteady. "Why don't we get this over with, so I don't ruin my dinner worrying about it?"

He looked at her for a moment and then nodded. He started to come out of the kitchen.

"No," she said dully. She was already trying to pretend she was somewhere else, that this wasn't really her, April, stripping in her own apartment. She regretted asking him to bring dinner - it was as if they were having a talent show, and hers was by far the more degrading act - but how could she have known he would be cooking for her? "Stay there."

He did.

April closed her eyes. Her fingers went to the zipper of her jumpsuit, which she had zipped up almost to her throat, as if in defiance of what was coming. She held her breath and quickly opened it to her waist. She could feel the cool air of her apartment on her skin. Her hands took her lapels and held them slightly more apart. "There. Satisfied?"

"Nope. All the way off. Please."

She sighed. Her long slim fingers found the buckle of her white belt and opened it. She shrugged her shoulders and felt the top of the jumpsuit part, the sleeves sliding down her arms. She lowered her arms and the top fell away. Her hips were very broad and she had to push the jumpsuit down over them; after that, it quickly slid down her legs and puddled at her feet. She had taken her boots off at the door and was wearing only socks, so she stepped out of the jumpsuit with one foot, then the other.

She crossed her arms in front of her breasts, hugging her shoulders. Before Michelangelo had arrived, she had put on her most boring bra and panties, but she knew those could hardly hide the fullness of her breasts or the breadth of her hips or the narrowness of her waist or the length and slimness of her legs. Or whatever it was he liked about her. Her skin was winter pale - not that she tanned well anyway - but it only accentuated the red in her hair. She had even carefully trimmed the down below her waist to ensure none of it would show.

Absurdly, she couldn't help but wonder how she looked to him. She knew she was attractive, but it wasn't something she thought about often - except when it became an obstacle to people taking her seriously as a journalist. Though she was mortified, but her curiosity got the better of her. She opened her eyes. He was watching, of course, resting on his folded arms atop the kitchen counter. She tried to read his expression. If she had to pick a word for it, it would be "moonstruck."

He let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding since she started. "You're - " His voice caught. "More beautiful than I remembered," he said firmly.

April was shivering in the cool air, though her face was flushed and very warm; her voice seemed stuck in her throat. "Yes. Now can I please put my clothes back on?"

"The rest of it too."

Her mouth opened and closed. "That's not fair!" she said at last. "You only said, without my jumpsuit."

She was sure he was going to make her do it anyway; he could make her do whatever he liked, she thought bitterly. But to her surprise, he said, "You're right. I did say that." His voice was regretful.

She didn't wait for him to change his mind. She crouched, careful not to let him see into the valley between her breasts, and her hands darted for the jumpsuit.

The phone rang.

Michelangelo started for it. "I'll - "

But April got there first, crossing the room with flashing strides of her long legs. She waved him back to the kitchen. She was annoyed at herself for not thinking to at least pull her jumpsuit up to her waist and close the belt before getting the phone. She yanked it from its cradle. "Hello?" she said, plainly unhappy.

Michelangelo stayed in the kitchen as she asked, but the interruption gave him a while longer to admire her. There was something amusing about her talking on the phone in her underwear, yet it also made her seem more desirable than ever. Maybe it was the pleasure of knowing about it while the person she was speaking to did not.

April rolled her eyes at him, but the gesture seemed directed at the call. "No, thank you," she said to the phone, and hung up.

She was back into her jumpsuit in record time. She was shivering; she went to the thermostat and jabbed at the controls. The heater came to life. Absurdly, she found herself feeling almost grateful that he hadn't made her strip to her skin. But she knew there would be a next time.

Anyway - the thought flashed through her mind before she could stop it - he could have pushed a little harder.

A timer went off in the kitchen. He turned and looked into the oven.

April sat back on the couch. Let him set the table, too, she thought petulantly. She had more than done her part. Even though her clothes were on, she felt as if he could still see her. She told herself, again and again, that it didn't matter, that he had seen her already, and in much less flattering circumstances. But she had the uneasy feeling he could have seen a thousand women nude and he still would have looked at her that way, as if she were the first.

He did set the table, without complaint, then he began bringing out the food. It smelled terrific. "Okay," he said. He pulled out her chair for her, but thankfully didn't push it in after she sat; she had always thought that crossed the line from polite to paternal.

The chicken, resting in a bed of saffron rice, tasted of lemon and rosemary and ground pepper, and was tender enough to cut with her fork. He had even found an old chafing dish, long buried in one of her cupboards, to serve it in. There were baked potatoes, with seasoned, crispy skin, and thick flaky rolls that were too rich to need butter, and a spinach salad with chopped fruits and nuts, drizzled with freshly squeezed lemon juice. There were fresh flowers, in one of her vases; he must have left them in the grocery bag as a surprise. She was relieved not to see any candles or wine, however.

Both of them were hungry; there was little conversation at first. April had not eaten food this good in months. She was still uneasy about what had happened, but she was quickly feeling better. Finally she said, "Michelangelo...how did you learn to do this? Cooking classes don't go this fast, do they?"

He smiled a little shyly. "Actually, it's about the only recipe I know so far. I've been practicing. You wouldn't want to eat my first half dozen tries at this."

April let out a contented sigh. She was going to be uncomfortable later, but right now she didn't care. "Just as well. If you fed me like this a few more times I wouldn't be on television much longer." On the other hand, she thought, maybe he wouldn't want to see her undressed either. Still, she was glad she had done what he wanted before she ate. She was sure her tummy was noticeably rounder now. No point in feeling insecure as well as humiliated.

The doorbell rang. Michelangelo jumped up. "I'll get it."

"Wait!" April said. "What if it's - "

"I think I know who it is, but I'll check." April couldn't help but notice, though, that his right hand went back and rested on one of his nunchaku. He looked through the peephole. "Yeah." Before she could stop him, he opened the door, though he left the chain on. He remained behind the door as he handed a twenty to the person outside, who then slipped a pizza box through the opening.

"Are you kidding?" April said. There was plenty of food left on the table; she would have at least two nights' worth of leftovers. "How can you still be hungry?"

He put the pizza on her counter. "This was just the backup plan. In case I screwed up."

April looked at her emptied plate. "Well, you didn't." She pushed back her chair and got stiffly to her feet; she had never been one to linger over her meals.

He started carrying plates to the kitchen. She said, "Just set the dishes in the sink to soak. I'll put them in the dishwasher later." She came into the kitchen with him and began getting out plastic containers. "I'll put the food away."

"I'll get it." He reached for one of the containers.

"No, you won't." She held it out of his reach. But she leaned back a little too far, and lost her balance.

Instantly his arms went around her, catching her. She was still trying to right herself; inadvertently, her arms went around him, her nose bumping into his snout. She could feel the thick hard muscles of his arms around her waist, the rough scutes of his plastron against her chest. No wonder, the thought flashed through her mind, the Shredder felt the need to wear serrated armor when fighting Michelangelo and his brothers.

April had never embraced one of the turtles before, though she had idly wondered if her arms would go all the way around them, with their shells. To her surprise, she thought she could do it, if she stretched. But that wasn't what she had in mind just now.

"Sorry." She disentangled herself. As she did, he snatched the container from her.

So she grabbed one of his nunchaku from the elastic belt that held it against his shell. She quickly stepped back to keep him from grabbing it. She held one of the handles in each hand, studying the grain of the wood, the many tiny scars. "So this is what you fight with. I always wondered what it would be like to know how to use this stuff." She released the handle from her left hand and began twirling the nunchaku gently with her right. He must keep the chain oiled, she thought; it didn't even make much sound.

"Be careful with that, dudette," he said. "It takes eight pounds of pressure per square inch to break bone. Nunchaku can dish out a lot more than that."

April knew he spoke out of concern, not reproach, but she realized she was behaving rudely. She had seen the reverence with which the turtles and Splinter handled and maintained their ninjutsu gear. She caught the free end of the nunchaku. "No disrespect meant. I'll trade you." She held a hand out and beckoned with her fingers.

"April - " He gestured to the couch. "Wouldn't you rather sit and relax?"

"Don't give me orders in my own kitchen."

"I just don't want you to have to scrub dishes. Your hands are too nice for that. Mine are used to being beat up."

"And I don't like sitting after I eat. In fact as soon as we're done I want to go for a walk."

Mike could understand that. He handed her the container. She put the food away while he soaked the dishes and started loading the dishwasher. They hardly got in each other's way, despite the cramped kitchen. April supposed it was because he was a ninja. Though she felt something, whenever they bumped into each other, that she couldn't quite identify. It was the same thing she had felt during their brief embrace. She realized it was also the thing she felt when he kneaded her shoulders, or rubbed her feet, or combed out her hair. It was the feeling of being looked after, of being cared for, of feeling safe.

She let out a frustrated breath. How did that feeling fit with his spying on her and taking those awful pictures and threatening to expose them unless she did whatever he wanted? Was she that sure, deep down, that he would never really do it?

He glanced at her. "What's wrong?"

April put her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her. "You obviously enjoy making me happy," she said. "You know what would make me really happy?" She drew out the word "really".

"A hug?"

"We just did that, remember?"

"My undying affection?"

"I thought I already had that. Though in a rather twisted way. Try again."

"Another trip to Europe?"

She blinked. "Wait, what?"

"Well, I'll have to work and save up for a few months first. But don't worry, my overhead is low."

"Oh. Well, that wasn't quite what I meant." Though, she had to admit, she yearned to see Paris again, and she still wanted to see Switzerland, and Denmark, and -

"Meanwhile, I can give you that walk," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

It was snowing again. The snow wasn't sticking, but it was pleasant to feel it on their faces. It muffled the usual noise of the city; even the air seemed clearer, and they took deep breaths of it despite the cold. There were haloes around the street lamps; the taller buildings were like lighted pillars supporting a low ceiling of clouds that were rosy with skyglow.

One thing April liked about her neighborhood was having several parks within walking distance. "Jackson, Abingdon, or Washington?" Mike asked. Those were to the northwest, the west, and the south.

"Let's go to Union," April said. "I haven't been there in a while."

She could see he wanted to argue, but he kept quiet. Union Square Park was to the east, and was notorious for drug dealing, despite the renovations a few years ago. Jackson Square Park was also being reworked, but that wouldn't be done for a few months yet.

"It'll be all right," she said. "I wouldn't go alone, but you're here." Anyway, it was getting better there - she had done a report on it a few weeks ago. The park had police patrols now, though critics said all that did was move the pushers elsewhere.

Crime worsened every year and there was no end in sight. April wouldn't have lived anywhere but New York - okay, maybe Paris or London - but she wondered how this could go on. But it had gone on for some three decades now, she reminded herself, and there was no sign the 1990s would be any different.

She pushed these thoughts aside; she meant to enjoy her walk. She was aware, though, that Michelangelo's eyes seemed to take in everything, and his head turned ever so slightly at any sound that came from behind them.

At first they didn't say much; they just enjoyed being outside and going somewhere. April was usually with all of the turtles at once, and four teenagers were not conducive to quiet; but the unaccustomed silence was a companionable one. For Mike, it was enough just having April there. As they crossed Fifth Avenue, he took her hand. She did not object; her thumb and index finger encircled his first finger and her other three fingers curled around his second.

She said, "So where exactly are you taking cooking classes?"

"Don't be mad."

She slowed. "Oh, no."

"Well, they wouldn't take me at Le Cordon Bleu," he said.

"So you asked Irma," she said.

"Like I said, it lets me help out at home. As far as she knows, that's it."

"I suppose that's plausible," April said. "So what is she getting out of this?"

"Don't worry, I told her I was spoken for."

"Funny. Come on."

"Just a sympathetic ear. So to speak."

"I was wondering why I was hearing less about her love life lately," April said.

"I know you get bored with hearing about it sometimes. But I like it. I want to learn what human relationships are like."

April was thinking Irma might be a better guide to what not to do, but she would never say such a thing about her best friend, even to one of the turtles.

"Michelangelo," she said instead, "why did you even want to see me? Don't I look - " she shrugged - "different to you?" She almost said "strange", but at the last instant realized it might offend him. Of course he was too familiar to look strange to her unless she thought about it; and she would never try to hurt him by implying he did, even with what was going on between them.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, my skin is pink instead of green. And I have hair." She held up her right hand and spread her fingers. "And too many fingers and toes - "

"You mean, I look different to you?" he said with a hint of a smile.

"You know that's not what I mean," she said. "I mean, I don't understand why you're attracted to me." She half expected him to admit it was because she was the first girl he ever saw. Or that he liked her because other men did.

"Well, it's like this, April." He paused, apparently deep in thought, and then said, "You're so pretty!" He said it with such artless enthusiasm that a few passersby glanced at them, and one even smiled.

She shoved him lightly with her shoulder. "Wise guy. Come on, tell me." Still, it was the first time she had seen the old Michelangelo since all this had started, and it made her feel a little better.

He stopped and held her hand and swung her gently around to face him. "Okay," he said, looking at her. He was wearing a knit cap, but no mask, making his eyes seem larger and darker and more serious than usual. "You're not afraid of anything. And you have a career you love, an important one. I guess it's more your calling than a career. You've always stood up for us, even when you had to do it alone. It's because of you we can walk around up here at all. And you are pretty. I like the way you laugh. And the way you wear your hair. And I think it's cute you have five fingers instead of three. Stop me when you get bored. This could go on for a while."

April was blushing furiously, feeling snowflakes melt on her heated face, and finding it hard to hold his gaze. "Oh," she said in a small voice. "I guess I never really thought about it." She was also very glad she had asked him this while they stood on a snowy sidewalk, dressed for winter, and not while he was looking at her nude in her living room. The street seemed quieter now; it was just the two of them.

"The other day," he said, "I didn't say what I meant. I said I wanted to see you. I just meant...like tonight."

"Without my having to undress, you mean."

"Yeah. I'm glad it happened, but I'm sorry I made you do it like that. If you wanted to, that would be different."

She sighed. "Well, you are a guy. And a teenager. Anyway, that was what I thought you meant, at first. About seeing me. So why not say so?"

"I was afraid you'd laugh at me."

"You know I wouldn't. And why not just ask me out in the first place? I might have said yes. It would have been better than - " she spread her hands - "all this."

"I overheard you, that one night, when you were talking to the guys. About how it would never work."

She sighed. "You love spying on me, don't you?" She looked down for a moment. "Maybe you're right," she said at last. "Maybe...all I would have seen were the complications. I wouldn't have imagined the good things. Not that it justifies what you did."

"After that night...I couldn't see any other way."

Somewhere, she heard a street musician playing, despite the late hour and the snow. April had long ago stopped being surprised by New York's capacity to surprise her. The melody wasn't itself a sad one, but somehow the sound of the violin and the winter night and the conversation made it seem so.

"Well, you can make it up to me now," she said. "Give me the pictures." They were walking again, still holding hands. April's tone was not pleading, or demanding, but calm and even.

"Why?"

"Because, Michelangelo," she said, "it's the only way we can have a real relationship. All right, so you made me try it...which I guess I wouldn't have otherwise, and...I haven't minded it. Yes, it feels good when you rub my shoulders and comb out my hair. Yes, I like it when you take care of me. I can hardly hide that from you. But a relationship is more than just you telling me what to do. Even if it includes being good to me, and even if I like it."

And she did like it. She had not had sex since that awful night, which was more than two months ago now. And it had been longer than that since she had been courted like this. Really courted, courted in a way that was about making her feel good and not just about getting her into bed.

"And there are complications, you know," she said. "It's not just that we're different species. Our ages are different. You'll - " She almost said he would meet many women in the years ahead, one of whom would surely displace her, his first crush. But that was hardly certain, was it? "You'll change as you get older," she said instead. "What you want will change. It might not include me."

She could see he didn't believe that. But at least he didn't argue with her. She said, almost to herself, "But then, you have been changing lately. Growing up."

"Some of that was you."

"That's not the best reason, Michelangelo."

"It had to happen somehow. Besides, it was mostly me."

"Well, at least you're not growing up too fast," she said, but she was smiling a little.

They walked in silence for a while.

He said, "You said there were good things, too. Why can't it go on like this?"

"Because the longer it does, Michelangelo, the harder it will be for me to forgive you!" April said, showing her first hint of anger. "Because while you're having fun treating me like your girlfriend, those pictures are all I can think about. If you care about me, then you can't just let me wonder whether someone is going to find them, no matter how carefully you tell me you hid them. You can't just let me worry about what you're going to ask for next, and whether it's going to be something I can't do."

She let out a breath. "And you've made me do just about everything you can, anyway. You are not going to sleep with me." Her voice was flat. "And you are not going to touch me, either." She realized that sounded silly. He had touched her many times, some of them at her invitation. But he would know what she meant. She said, "If we ever do those things together, it will be because I want them, too. You have to give me the chance to say yes or no."

"I'd never make you do that, April," he said. "Maybe I should have said so. I guess I just figured you knew."

She sighed. "I did know. Well, mostly. You scared me a few times, you know."

"Yeah."

"I promise I'll give it an honest try, Michelangelo. Like we've been doing. You have to trust me to do that. And you have to understand, I can't promise it will work out. It might, or it might not. A real relationship has risks. Sometimes, people get hurt."

"That man hurt you." For once Mike was able to put aside his own pain at what he had seen. He realized, to his shame, it had blinded him to hers.

April took a deep breath, let it out. "Yes. But you're not like him. He didn't care whether he hurt me or not. You've hurt me, too, but it hurts you also. I see that."

"Yeah."

"And even good relationships have bad days," she said. "We'll have disagreements. Misunderstandings. Arguments. Those are part of it. And you can't have those pictures to bring up when you don't get your way. But I will do my part to try to make it work."

"A bad day with you is still worth having, April," he said.

She couldn't help smiling. Sometimes his naiveté was touching. "Just remember that when we're having it." 

"Would we tell the others?" he said.

She frowned a little. "Of course we would. I don't have to announce it on my evening broadcast, but I'm not about to hide it." April realized Irma would be thrilled for her. To her own surprise, she realized she looked forward to telling Irma, just a little.

He nodded. "Good." He wanted her to be part of the family.

"That's refreshing," she said. "A guy who doesn't want to brag about dating April O'Neil." She was pretending to be put out, but he knew she was teasing.

"It's just that, if it doesn't work out...I don't want you to feel awkward coming by the lair, afterward. Not like before."

"Yeah," April said darkly. "I knew something was going on, but I had no idea."

"I just...couldn't see you. I was in bad shape."

"Hm." She decided he wasn't asking for sympathy. "What if they're jealous?" she said, meaning his brothers.

"Of me?"

"Or of me," she said. "What if they think I'm taking you away from them?"

"They love you, April. I can't imagine them being jealous of you." Though he said "they" and not "I", the way he said it made that more than clear; April felt her face heating again.

"And Splinter can help with things like that," he said. "I haven't told him, but he knows about us."

She nodded. "I'm not surprised."

They walked a few more steps in silence. At last he said, "Let me think about it."

She nodded. She did not move away from him or release his hand, but she felt a little more distant from him, somehow.

"It's...hard," he said. "What you're asking for means I could lose you forever."

"If you keep on like this, you will anyway."

"I have nightmares about it," he said, "about losing you." He said, almost to himself, "Maybe they're really about this."

"What nightmares?"

"Bad ones."

"Tell me."

He couldn't make himself say it, for fear of somehow making it come true. He shook his head.

She squeezed his hand again. "It's just your conscience bothering you."

They walked the oval path through the park, quiet now, looking up at the bare branches of the trees against the rosy sky. The last of the greenmarket stalls had closed up; the park was very quiet. Apparently there were no police patrols tonight. They saw a couple of suspicious-looking loiterers, but no one bothered them. April squeezed Mike's hand slightly, to say she didn't want trouble; for his part, he was happy enough to live and let live tonight. April had no doubt that, alone, she would have been hassled, at the least. But she was safe with him.

April was feeling good. She realized, abruptly, that the date - that was what it was - was going just like her last one. A lovely meal, a walk in the park, holding hands, and then up to her darkened apartment, and then...

Her mind knew that wasn't Michelangelo's fault; he could not even know of it. But for her heart - or maybe just her pride - the wound was too fresh.

She let him walk her to the door of her apartment. She could tell he wanted to come in with her. She was about to tell him no, when she realized she misunderstood. "You want to make sure it's empty, don't you?"

He was relieved. "Yeah."

"All right." She unlocked the door and stepped aside and let him open it and look through her apartment. She trailed after him. He was thorough, even checking the closets and under the bed. And somehow she knew he wasn't doing it to impress her - he was serious. She didn't mind indulging him that much. She had, after all, once walked into her apartment in the middle of a burglary. One of the thieves had shoved her to the ground after she angrily confronted him. If Irma had not been there, it might have been worse.

And somehow she trusted Michelangelo to know she wanted to be alone and to respect that. And he did. After he checked everywhere and found nothing, he went back out into the hallway and turned to say good night.

She kissed him on the snout, to thank him for the dinner and the walk. She had kissed the turtles before, though always in a merely affectionate way, but it still surprised her a little that they tasted and felt like anyone else. In this case it was like kissing someone on the chin, a slight yielding but with firmness beneath. He seemed content to leave things there, almost seemed to have been expecting it.

After she shut the door, she thought: well, he could have pushed it a little. She supposed he had a lot to think about.

*

And Mike did. He thought about it all the way back to the lair, and all through his nightly exercises, and he came no closer to an answer. He wished he could ask Splinter's advice, but he did not know how to phrase the question.

He went into Splinter's room and looked through the shelves of old books. It was an eclectic collection. At first it contained only books that humans had thrown out - their covers tattered, their bindings disintegrating, their pages torn and falling out - but prized by the turtles. After they met April, it was swelled considerably by her finds in used bookstores and remainder bins. The turtles left Splinter's other things alone, but Splinter made it clear they were welcome to the library - especially when he tired of overhearing the television.

He found the one he wanted: Ibsen's "The Lady from the Sea". He went into his room and sat on his bed and began reading it. To his surprise, he found it much easier going than he remembered. It helped that some long-ago reader had penciled comments in the margins. 

Splinter had told the turtles hundreds of stories over the years, many recited from memory, others read from books, some made up as he went. Mike enjoyed them the most, and he retained the broad strokes of many of them, if not the details. One that struck a chord with all the turtles when they were younger was Andersen's "The Little Mermaid". They had not yet met April; as the mermaid did, they thought of humans as remote, almost mythical beings.

Mike in particular had been dissatisfied with the ending, wanting to know why the prince could not have married the mermaid. Splinter had suggested another story to him, one about what might have happened if the mermaid had indeed married the prince.

The story was not about an actual mermaid, but a woman who had married out of necessity, and now was asking her husband to release her, so she could choose to come back to him - or not to. "I have been as well cared for here as a human being could desire," she said. "But I did not enter your house freely. That is the trouble. Set me free. Believe me, it will come to that all the same. You can indeed keep me here. You can, and you mean to. But my mind - all my thoughts, all the longings and desires of my soul - those you cannot bind."

Splinter passed by and saw him. "What is that you are reading, my son?"

Mike showed him.

"Ah," Splinter smiled. "The story of your mermaid."

"Yeah. Though I still don't get all of it."

"Reading Ibsen-san, I recall, is like opening a set of Chinese boxes - meanings within meanings. I prefer Bashō-sama, myself."

"The wandering haiku dude."

"Exactamundo," Splinter said. "But think of the wife as a mermaid who washes up on shore and is found and taken in by strangers. She finds a life with them, but it is a life of exile; she longs always for her first home, the sea. And her husband lets her go, yes?"

"Yeah."

"And then she comes back to him."

"Yeah. That helps," Mike said wryly.

"But," Splinter said, "he did not know she would come back to him. If he did, then for her it would not be a choice."

Mike nodded slowly.

Donatello looked in on both of them. "Sensei. Hey, Mikey."

"Hey." Mike glanced at the green wind-up clock in some surprise; he had been reading for hours.

"I just got back from checking on April. She's fine."

Mike smiled. It was Splinter who had asked them to keep an eye on her, but they all knew who was really worried about her. None of them had so much as grumbled about it, even Raphael; they all knew Mike would do the same for one of them. Besides, it was April; they worried about her too. There had been no sign of the Shredder for months, which struck them as ominous.

"She was tossing and turning some," Don said. "I almost went in and woke her up but I figured that would scare her worse."

Splinter nodded. "Thank you, Donatello. You were right. Best to let her sleep. Nightmares end."

After they left, Mike looked at the book in his hands again, not seeing the words, wondering if April's bad dreams were his doing.

Though it shamed him, he could not help but ask himself - would April say what she had, just to get the pictures? He could hardly blame her if she did, but that did not solve his dilemma. But he did not think she was lying. What she said made sense; he could never have real affection from her that was based on fear. And if he didn't trust her, whatever the circumstances, then how could he tell himself he deserved her?

And she was offering him what he had wanted in the first place. What did it say about him if he refused it, to keep her as the mermaid in the gilded pond? She might learn to live with it, she might even like it, but she would never forget she did not belong there, and it would eat at her. And in a way, he would be no closer to her than he had been before.

But what if it didn't work out? He would be heartbroken, of course, but he thought he could handle it. Failing was a different thing from never even being given a chance. He had done his best to show her he was good for her. It would have to be enough.


	12. Chapter 12

April started her Saturday feeling surprisingly good. The wind and rain from earlier in the week had vanished; strong yellow sunlight fell across her bed. She opened the bedroom window a few inches; it was cold out, but she preferred fresh air. She went to the kitchen and made coffee, then came back with it and the newspaper. She loved to lie in bed and sip her coffee and wake up slowly and read the paper and think about her day before she got up, but her job did not often allow her to.

She had even pushed Michelangelo and those awful pictures to the back of her mind. She had spent most of the last week either standing still for the camera or sitting at her desk; she wanted to take a long walk, alone, pretending everything was fine.

She was on her second cup of coffee when her throat began to feel scratchy. She finished her coffee and got out of bed and took a shower and dressed. That made her feel better, though she was also starting to sniffle. That only made her more determined to go on her walk; if she was getting sick, she might as well enjoy herself while she could. She put extra packets of tissues in her purse, put on a wool sweater and her white winter coat, got in her news van, and drove north on Route 9A to Inwood Hill Park.

She walked along the river for a couple of hours. She had always liked being by the water. At times she stopped and just watched the bare branches of the trees waving gently against the blue sky. Despite her name, fall and winter were her favorite seasons. Not many people were out, just the occasional jogger or dog walker. The stress of her long week melted away in the solitude. The air was cold and fresh and seemed to clear up her runny nose somewhat, though it also scraped against her throat.

Then she saw a couple walking and holding hands. Despite her intention to not think about Michelangelo, the sight recalled her walk with him last night. His words came back to her: "You mean, I look different to you?" He had said it jokingly, without bitterness.

But April sometimes wondered at the toll it must take on him and his brothers, being so alone in the world. Aside from her job and the turtles, April led a solitary life, but she could only imagine what it was like for them. Leonardo could become a coach, an executive, or a general; Donatello could go into scientific research or the technology sector; Raphael could become an entertainer. Except they couldn't.

That was one of the things that drove her to try to make the world accept them. Splinter could not make their world for them forever. When they grew up, she wanted them to have a place to go. And now Michelangelo, of all of them, was growing up more quickly than she had expected, and in ways she had hardly thought of.

Though she had also wondered what the turtles would do for a family life as they got older. It wasn't as if they could marry, buy a house on Long Island, and settle down to raise their children. In many ways Splinter had it harder - he had been human. But he was also used to an almost monastic life. In exile, he had re-created the dojo and clan that his student, Saki, had usurped. Teaching was his life. And the turtles were his family. But they had no way to create families of their own.

But what happened as she and Michelangelo both got older? At thirty, April did not care to envision herself as the older half of a May-December romance. But maybe he would age faster than she did. But even non-mutant pet turtles could live for 30 or 40 years. Sea turtles could live to be 80. And Harriet, the giant tortoise collected by Charles Darwin, had outlived him by more than a century and counting.

For some reason she could not identify, April felt as if she wanted to cry. "Why am I thinking about this?" she asked herself.

By the time she got home she was ready to spend the day relaxing in bed to store up her energy for the party that night, though she was glad she had gone for her walk. She was more glad she had worked late all week to free up her weekend, because she was in no mood to go in to work today. Unless all hell broke loose, Thompson would have to do without her.

She lay in bed reading and drinking hot tea and munching on a slice of the pizza Michelangelo had brought her earlier that week; she had put it in a plastic container in the refrigerator to keep it from getting stale. She liked pizza as much cold as hot, and she certainly was not up to cooking or going shopping.

She dozed, and woke with a start. The apartment was dark. She glanced at the alarm clock in panic; but she still had time to make it to the party. She was sleepily debating whether to go. She felt too warm, and her head felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton, and her joints ached a little, though she put that down to her long walk and insufficient exercise. She took another shower to try to feel better, but it did little to alleviate her symptoms.

She had filmed a report a few days earlier in a crowded indoor market; that was likely where she picked up this bug. Standing out in the wind and rain, that day when Michelangelo first combed out her hair afterward, could not have helped. She shrugged. She had worked while she was sick before.

April wore her yellow evening dress. It was the first time she had put it on since that disastrous date, but she loved that dress - she and Irma had picked it out for her to wear to an embassy party - and she refused to let that incident ruin it for her.

Anyway, the party was being given by the president of a prominent charity, so there was little chance of April running into that Wall Street jerk there. Most of the attendees would be old-money donors; rather outside his orbit, April thought, allowing herself a trace of smugness. She, on the other hand, had covered diplomatic functions and high-end fundraising galas, and was accustomed to mingling above her class. Once she had even successfully impersonated a princess, which was fun until the Shredder mistakenly kidnapped her, hoping to hold her for ransom.

The party was at a townhouse in Gramercy Park. April arrived later than she meant to, and wound up parking three blocks away. Normally she would have enjoyed the walk in the chilly evening air, but not tonight, as she tried to stifle her coughs. Leaving her apartment, she had darted back inside to grab a cashmere wrap that went with her dress; she was grateful for it now.

She had been to a couple of parties here over the years. They tended to be informal, which she much preferred. The press were not officially invited, but it made sense for the host to stay on friendly terms with them by inviting someone like April. April also saw people she knew from Channels 9 and 11, and from the Daily News and the Post. No one here had a high enough profile to interest the tabloids.

It was too bad the party wasn't being held in the spring; the house had that rarity in New York, a generous back yard. The house was spacious and not overly crowded, but the air was already fragrant with expensive tobacco smoke. April began to find it uncomfortable to swallow; she hoped she did not sound hoarse.

April wasn't much for socializing, even if someone else was paying for the food and drinks. Outside of work she lived as private a life as she could. But this counted as work. She took a glass of Cabernet - no doubt an expensive one, though she was no connoisseur, and she took only the occasional sip for the sake of appearances - and began to circulate.

At first she enjoyed saying hello and making small talk. Getting out of her house and coming here seemed to make her oncoming cold retreat a bit, or maybe she was just distracted from it. But after a half hour she was bored. Another half hour and she was feeling crummy enough that boredom didn't seem so bad by comparison.

Despite her worsening cold, April looked good, as always, and several men indicated interest in her. She put them off, politely but directly. She figured she would be ready to date again about the time Irma had her third child with Sean Connery. Michelangelo didn't count, since she had no choice there, even though she had to admit she liked it.

The host came over to the little group April was in and said hello. He had given her several good interviews over the years, and connected her to various useful people, which was why she was here. April stayed a while longer, to be polite, then thanked him and slipped out.

It was much colder outside now; despite her wrap and her oncoming fever, April had gone from feeling too warm to shivering. Still, the fresh air was a welcome change, and she took several deep breaths. Her last one ended in a wet-sounding cough. She had no thought but to get back to her van, turn the heater to the highest setting, go home, and crawl in bed.

Thankfully, she found a spot to park the van right in front of her building. She went up to her apartment and straight to her closet. Her shoulder and elbow joints protested as she reached back to unzip her dress. She yearned to just leave it puddled on the floor and have it pressed later, but she made herself hang it up. The walk to her bed seemed as long as the drive home had. She fell into her bed still wearing her bra and panties, pulled the heavy blanket over her shuddering body, coughed, and laid her head on her pillow. Her nose was so stuffy she had to breathe through her mouth, but she was asleep almost at once.

She awoke with a groan. The apartment was still mostly dark, but there was a thin bluish light coming through the window; the sun must just be coming up. The light fell on a shape near her bed. It was someone sitting in a chair. She was beyond being startled or frightened; she half believed it to be a dream. She squinted and realized it was one of the turtles. She had just decided it was Michelangelo when she fell asleep again.

She drifted in and out. The apartment lightened - though she noticed someone had closed the curtains over her window - then darkened again. Shadows moved from one place to another, then lengthened and disappeared. Other people came and went: Irma, Splinter, the other turtles. She thought she overheard them talking, but their voices were too low to make out the words. But the shape in the chair by her bedside was always there.

She had a bad dream. She was back at the party, walking around in her yellow dress, needing to go to the bathroom, but no one could tell her where it was. She left and then somehow she was downtown, going from store to store, her bladder making her more and more miserable, but no one seemed to have a restroom available. She whimpered, pressing her thighs together.

Then, for some reason, she dreamt she was back in her apartment and Michelangelo was picking her up and carrying her to her bathroom and setting her gently down on the toilet. She rested her head against his chest and almost wept with relief as she felt the pressure easing. At first she couldn't believe she was finally getting to go, but somehow the tiny sound of water splashing into the bowl convinced her.

Later, when she was slightly more lucid, she remembered that, and she was sure it must have been a dream, because it should have seemed strange but didn't. For now all she knew was that she felt so much better. She was back in her bed, shivering with a mixture of chills and delicious relief, as she felt the warm blanket cover her. She curled up and pulled it tight around her. 

The Paddington bear was sitting on her other pillow; she had not had a stuffed animal in years, but as a girl she always kept them on her bed, so she had instinctively put it there when she brought it home from work. She reached for it and held it to her. She smiled and slept.

She awoke, briefly, feeling very damp. She heard Irma say that the fever had broken. She asked whose fever it was, but someone just stroked her hair and said, "I know, angel." She felt something soft and damp on her face, then her arms and legs and back and tummy, then she felt herself being lifted, and when she was put back down, everything was dry again. She was cold; then she felt the blanket being pulled over her again. She felt around for the bear, and then it was suddenly in her hand; someone must have put it there. She slept.

She woke up for what felt like the first time. The curtains were open and light was coming in, but it was soft and coming from a low angle. She glanced at her clock. It said twenty after five. It must be evening. Sunday evening. Work tomorrow. 

"Ngh," she said.

The figure in the chair jerked - she was so used to it, she'd forgotten it was there. It was Michelangelo. He opened his eyes. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she said. She realized she could speak without her throat hurting nearly as much as before, though her voice still sounded scratchy.

"How are you feeling?"

She managed a weak smile. "I've been better."

"Need anything?"

"So hungry," she said. She started to push the blanket down.

He caught her hand. "Stay there. I'll go fix something."

She closed her eyes. "Oh, that's right. Cook now." She meant to say "You can cook now," but she was still a little fuzzy, and anyway, yeah, she wanted him to go make her something. 

She was wondering if she would go back to sleep, but she stayed awake, watching the light slowly fade. She was still holding the Paddington bear. She smiled and put it back on the other pillow. She listened to Michelangelo moving around in the kitchen. Soon she smelled coffee brewing. And bacon frying. God. She wanted to get up and go in there and make the food ready faster, somehow.

He came in carrying a tray, which he set at the foot of her bed. She let him stack two of her pillows against the wrought-iron headboard of her bed and lift her to a sitting position, propped against them. Then he put the tray on her lap and went back to the chair.

She had glasses of water and orange juice, and a mug with hot water and a rainbow assortment of teabags, but - "Coffee?" She eyed the steaming mug he was holding. She realized she sounded ungrateful, but it smelled so good.

He handed it to her. She cradled it in her hands, feeling the heat seep into them, and breathing in the vapors. Her throat was a little ticklish, but she didn't cough. She took a sip, then another.

"You're welcome to it," he said, "just remember it's late and you need rest."

She nodded and handed the mug back to him. She didn't think he would want to drink after her, but he took a large swallow.

"What about you?" she said. "You'll be up all night."

"Fine by me," he said. "But if I'm asleep and you need anything, wake me. I don't care what time it is."

She nodded and turned to her plate. She had a pile of scrambled eggs that were still steaming, two thick pieces of toast, four slices of bacon wrapped in paper towels to absorb the grease, a bowl of hot oatmeal, half a grapefruit, and a dish of fresh strawberries. She realized she was having breakfast for dinner. She had loved to do that when she was a girl. She picked up a piece of toast - it had jam but no butter, which was how she liked it. He had drawn a little red heart on it with the jam. She smiled and took a large bite out of the heart and got toast crumbs on her chin.

"This is my favorite bread," she said. "From the bakery on Fifth."

"Irma went shopping yesterday, when you started getting better." April heard that but it didn't quite register with her; she was trying to decide between English breakfast tea and mint. Mint would be easier on her throat, she decided.

"I'll never eat all this, but thank you," she said.

"I'll eat what you don't," he said.

In fact she ate nearly all of it. She felt wonderful, as if she were coming back to life. Her senses felt sharpened; the tastes and smells were almost overwhelming. She put the tray aside and sat back with a sigh.

"What a night," she said. "When did you get here, anyway?" She had given all the turtles keys to her apartment, so she knew how he got in.

"Sunday," he said. "You didn't answer your turtle-comm - "

"What?" She sat up. "What is today?"

"Thursday."

She sank back into the pillows, stunned. "I knew I was sick, but..." She started to reach for the phone. "I have to call Burne. He must be having kittens - "

He held up a hand. "It's fine. I called Irma Sunday night and she told him. He came by yesterday to see how you were doing."

She shook her head. "I don't remember."

"You were asleep. He looked pretty worried, if you'd like to know."

She closed her eyes. "He's probably given my job to Vern by now."

Michelangelo smiled. "Actually, I think that's why he was worried. Vern's been anchoring. It's not helping the ratings any."

She giggled. "Oh. Good." She relaxed. "I'll go in tomorrow - "

He shook his head. "Not till Monday. The doc ordered it and Burne agreed."

"What doctor?"

"Channel 6 sent one over."

April thought for a moment. "I dreamt I saw Irma, and the others..."

"They've all been here, on and off."

April noticed now that there was a fresh bouquet of flowers on her bedside table, and two more on her dresser, and a half dozen cards that had been opened and propped up. 

She looked at him. Of course, he didn't show tiredness the same way a human would, but she abruptly realized he looked like - "And you've been here the whole time," she said.

"Yeah."

She turned. She had a large oval dressing mirror in the corner on the other side of her bed. Even from here, she could see - "God. I look awful." Her hair was a tangled greasy wreck. Her makeup was gone, except for a few stray flecks of mascara, and her face was pale. She glanced down at her hands. Her green nail polish was chipped.

She looked back at him. She felt tears welling in her eyes, though she knew it was partly because the illness had weakened her emotional control. "Well, now you've really seen me," she said, her voice just a little shaky. "I hope that cured you."

He held out a hand. Puzzled, she took it. Before she quite realized what was happening, he pulled her into a kiss.

He couldn't just kiss her, of course - his snout got in the way - but he tilted his head and then he could kiss her on the corner of her mouth, and then she was turning her head to meet him and kissing him back. She closed her eyes and slipped her arms around his neck. His arms went around her and she could feel their muscles through the thin cotton of her nightgown, could feel her breasts pressing against the hard shell over his chest.

For an instant, she had the feeling of being back in a fever dream, of seeing a picture where the edges were blurry, but the colors were vivid and warm. She opened her mouth to his and said, "Mmmm." His mouth was a little wider, so she couldn't fit her lips exactly to his, but she hardly noticed; kissing him felt much like kissing anyone. He tasted of coffee. She had the same feeling she had while she was eating, the sense of joy and gratitude for being alive and young and loved and cared for.

They broke the kiss and just held each other. She looked at him, trembling a little. "Oh," she said. Her voice was unsteady, but in a different way now. "I guess not."

"Nope. You are beautiful."

She couldn't imagine how he thought that right now, but somehow she believed him. She felt a little better. She gently pushed him away. "I can't believe you just did that."

"You said no sex and no touching, but you forgot to say no kissing." He sat back in his chair.

"Oh. Well, I didn't mean that. I mean, you'll get sick too."

"I don't care."

"I do."

"If I was going to catch it, I would have by now, anyway."

"Michelangelo," she said, "you said I didn't answer my turtle-comm last Sunday. What were you calling about?"

To her surprise, he tensed a little. He reached into an inside pocket in his trenchcoat, which he had draped over the chair. He took out an envelope and handed it to her. "I wanted to bring you this."

The envelope felt heavy. She said, "Is this..."

"Yeah."

"Not because I'm sick," she said. She wondered why she was being stubborn about something like that. In her mind a voice was shouting at her to tear it up, right now, while she had the chance. But her hands refused to obey.

He shook his head. "I made up my mind after our walk."

She didn't want to open it. He understood. "I'll burn it," he said.

She nodded and handed the envelope back to him. He went to her kitchen and got a book of matches, then went into her bathroom and closed the door and turned on the fan; she thought she smelled a wisp of smoke, though she no doubt imagined it. Then she heard water running in the bathtub. He was washing the ashes down the drain.

The door opened and he came back, empty-handed this time. He sat in the chair and watched her.

She said, "I've thought about this. What I would do when it finally happened. If it happened."

He nodded.

"I thought about telling you to get out and never come near me again."

He nodded again. "To see if I kept any of them. Just in case."

"Yeah." She paused. "But I won't. I asked you to trust me. And you did. So I have to trust you."

He didn't move, but she could see his relief. The room was nearly dark now. He took a deep breath and stood. "I'll leave, if you want. I'll call one of the guys - "

"No." She was feeling sleepy after her heavy meal. She wriggled back down under the blanket. "I'd rather you stayed." She lay her head on the pillow, facing him. "Tell me a story, will you? You still owe me for reading 'The Tortoise and the Hare' to you. Five times, as I recall."

So he told her the story of the mermaid. He talked until she closed her eyes and her breathing became deep and even. He let his voice trail off and she did not react. He said, "I love you, April."

But then she smiled, her eyes still closed, and said, "I know."


	13. Chapter 13

After that, April got better quickly. Mike let her sleep in Friday morning; she woke around ten and smiled to see him still sitting in the chair. She yawned hugely and stretched her arms and back and legs. She took a deep, clear breath, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of air moving freely through her nose and throat and lungs. But more than that -

"It wasn't a dream, was it? You really burned those pictures," she said.

"I really did."

She nestled back underneath her heavy blanket. Free, she thought. She was free. She didn't remember exactly how it felt to be six years old and waking up on Christmas morning, but it had to have been a little like this.

"You could borrow my couch, you know," she said.

"Irma did, Tuesday night, when you were going through the worst of it. But - " he shrugged - "you might have needed something. I didn't want you to have to yell, because I knew you wouldn't do it."

She closed her eyes, letting her head settle into the soft pillow. "You just like being near me."

"You got me."

"I should have let you sleep in the bed," she said. "I know you wouldn't do anything. It's just that..."

"It feels too early for that," he said.

"Yeah."

"Anyway," she said, "trust me, you wouldn't want to get in this bed."

"We changed the sheets after your fever broke."

"Well, we're changing them again today." April pushed back the blanket and sheet and slipped her legs out of the bed and put her feet on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. She glanced down at the nightgown she was wearing. "I don't remember putting this on. I was in my underwear." She looked down again; the outlines of her bra and panties showed faintly through the white nightgown. "And I'm pretty sure it was different underwear." She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Irma did that."

"Oh." She started to stand, and winced; her back was stiff. She held out her hands to him. "Help me up?"

He stood and took her hands and pulled her to her feet. He gave her a little extra pull; he was stronger and his center of gravity was lower, and she found herself stepping forward into a hug. Her arms went around his neck. She was a head taller than he was, so she turned her face and rested her cheek atop his head. She noticed he held his head straight instead of resting it between her breasts. The feeling came back to her again, of being warm and safe. They held each other, rocking gently back and forth.

She extricated herself. "I must smell awful."

"Sandalwood and lemon blossoms," he said, remembering Splinter's words. She blushed. He said, "We gave you sponge baths."

"Well, I haven't had a shower in six days. I want one right now."

"Can I - "

"No." It felt good to be able to say that. He didn't seem put out, but she reminded herself of her promise and explained, "I know you think I'm pretty. And I'm glad. But right now, I don't feel pretty. Which means it doesn't feel good to be watched."

That reached him, she saw - if it didn't feel good to her then he didn't want to do it. She smiled. "You can put those sheets in the wash. And put new ones on. I'd like the white knitted ones. They're on the top shelf in the closet. And then you can fix me breakfast. Please."

"This relationship stuff is hard," he said.

She went into the bathroom and closed the door. He hadn't asked what she wanted to eat. She decided she approved. She didn't want to have to make all the decisions.

She planned to enjoy a long hot soak in the bathtub later, but for now she wanted a shower. Still, she took her time, giving Michelangelo time to get breakfast ready. Clouds of steam swirled around her. She marveled again at the simple luxury of taking deep clear lungfuls of air; it was so easy to take for granted. She soaped and rinsed herself twice, and washed her hair, avoiding the tangles as best she could, wincing several times when she ran into one.

She turned off the water and began drying herself with her large white fluffy towel. As she did, she heard the water start running in the washing machine. She had forgotten about that - if she took a shower while the washer was running, she got alternating blasts of icy and searing water. So Michelangelo had waited to start the washer. It was a little thing, but it was thoughtful.

That was when April started thinking she could get used to this.

She put on fresh underwear - God, it felt good to feel clean and have fresh clean clothes on - and her old and comfortable lilac bathrobe. She left her hair only partly dried - she wanted Michelangelo to comb out her tangles after breakfast - and didn't bother with makeup. As she came out of the bathroom, she could smell coffee, and indistinct but savory cooking smells, and she could hear something sizzling on the stove.

He had opened her bedroom window to air the room out; a stiff January breeze tugged at her still-wet hair. Her white knitted sheets were on her bed, tucked in with almost military neatness; a habit Michelangelo had learned from Splinter, no doubt. The pillowcases and blanket had been changed as well. The last week's issues of the Times were stacked on the bedside table, along with a cup of coffee that was giving off wisps of steam.

April's first instinct was to go into the kitchen and help, but she told herself she had just spent a week being sick and was entitled to a little pampering. She closed the window to a crack. She pulled back the sheet and blanket, propped her pillows against the headboard, propped herself against them, pulled the blanket up over her lap, and sipped her coffee as she read last Sunday's Times. 

Michelangelo brought in a tray; she put the paper aside so he could set it on her lap. He told her not to wait for him, and she was eating when he returned a minute later with his own tray. She had wondered if he would fix her the same thing again, but he didn't. Today she had a steaming mound of home fries, a few links of chicken sausage, more toast from the bread she liked, a thick round slice of pineapple, a sliced peach, and a dish of yogurt. She cleaned her plate and sat back and washed it down with the last of her coffee. "I want to go for a walk today," she said. She patted her stomach. "Have to work this off."

"You lost some weight this week. But I understand wanting to get out."

"Yeah. I'd like you to comb out my hair first, though."

She handed him her tray and he took it to the kitchen and put the dishes into the sink to soak. He came back and went into her bathroom and got her comb and she scooted forward on the bed to make room for him. He sat cross-legged behind her; his shell wouldn't let him sit on a hard surface, but her bed was soft enough. She lay back and rested her head in his lap and closed her eyes as he went to work. An hour later, her breakfast had settled and she was long since tangle-free, though he didn't seem bored with combing.

She reached back and took the comb. "Let's go. I want to walk. And I have to put makeup on."

"No you don't," he said.

She smiled. "Thank you. But my appearance is part of the job. I'm the face of Channel 6, you know."

"Well, better you than Burne."

He got up and pulled her up after him. This time she hugged him. She bowed her head and let her freshly-washed and combed hair spill over the top of his head. "You are good to me," she said. She put her hand on the back of his head and gently tilted it forward to rest between her breasts.

"Mm," he said, his voice muffled. "Always wondered what these were for."

She giggled and pushed him away from her.

"Can I take a nap on them later?"

"No."

*

Channel 6 didn't have enough news vans to leave one parked at April's apartment for a week; someone had come and picked it up Monday. But she had her moped, which had the advantage of being easier to park. It wasn't really meant for two, but Mike was able to perch behind her, atop the trunk, with his hands clasped around her midsection. She toned down her usual aggressive driving a bit so as not to throw him off.

It was raining lightly as she parked near the library at Fifth and 40th. They walked up Fifth, window shopping, stepping around puddles on the sidewalk, listening to the swoosh of tires on dark wet pavement. April was bundled up heavily, with a thick sweater and her white double-layer winter coat, and a woolen cap and scarf; Mike wore his trenchcoat, scarf, and knit cap. Despite the drizzle, there was something magical about walking around downtown on a Friday morning while most everyone else was working. April slipped her hand into Michelangelo's; with his other hand he held her large red and gray Channel 6 umbrella over both of them.

She wanted to go into a couple of department stores. He followed her with some apprehension, and kept one eye on the nearest exit, but no one paid him any mind; there were just enough other people shopping to keep the salespeople busy. They ate lunch in a cafeteria, where they sat at a corner table and watched people hurrying by on the sidewalks ten stories below, a parade of bobbing umbrellas. By the time they reached 46th, April was slowing a little, so they turned and walked back on the other side of Fifth.

By the time they got back to her place, the rain was falling steadily. They shed their damp outer clothing, and April went to have her hot bath. Mike went into the kitchen to start planning dinner. He heard the water turn off, and then April called, "Michelangelo?"

He went to the bathroom door. "Yeah?"

"Come read me something."

He smiled to himself and went into her bedroom and picked up one of her library books, a murder mystery. He went into the bathroom. April was lying in the tub, resting her head on a small inflatable pillow between the rim of the tub and the wall. The rest of her was covered by a thick layer of suds. The bubble bath gave off a familiar fragrance.

"Essence of Jellybean?" he asked.

"Mm-mm." She caught the flicker of disappointment on his face and smiled. "If you read to me long enough, the bubbles might dissolve."

Her voice was a little raspy. He said, "I hope that rain didn't make you sick again."

"If it did, then you can take care of me again." She looked at him. "What are you thinking about?"

"It's just, the way you sound right now, you remind me of the other April. The one from the other timeline."

"In England?"

"Yeah."

"I never did get to hear that whole story. What was she like?"

"Just like you. Brave. Beautiful. Sweet." April blushed and glanced down, but a tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth. He said, "In fact the only difference was, she always spoke in a kind of whisper. I guess it was because she was so used to being hunted by Moriarty's secret police."

April shook her head. "I can't imagine living like that."

"We told her if we succeeded, her timeline might vanish and she might cease to exist." He was gazing into his many reflections in the bubbles, lost in the memory. "She never turned a hair. She said it would be worth it, if it put things right again. I always wondered what happened to her."

April flicked a clump of suds at him. "One of me is plenty, Michelangelo."

"Yeah." He opened her book to the bookmark and began reading to her. She closed her eyes as she listened.

*

After Mike finished a chapter he said, "I'm getting the munchies."

She smiled, her eyes still closed. "Me too. What are we having?"

"That'd take the fun out of it. You'll have to guess by the cooking smells." He glanced at the tub as he moved the bookmark to the new place and closed the book. The bubbles had not dissolved yet.

She opened her eyes and caught his look and smiled again. "I'll tell you what. I seem to remember you were going to rub my back last time."

"Yeah."

"How about we do that after dinner? My back is still kinda stiff. In fact, I'm a little achy all over. Must be left over from the flu."

He caught what she was saying. His heart sped up. He nodded. "I'll get dinner started while you dry off." He turned to the door.

"Michelangelo?"

He stopped. "Yeah."

"Am I being too demanding?"

"Nope."

"It's just that we won't always have this kind of time together."

"This has been one of the best days of my life, dudette."

She smiled. "No complaints here either."

*

Mike looked in April's refrigerator. He smiled as he recalled the first time he had done that, at her old apartment, a few days after first meeting her. Her refrigerator and freezer had contained nothing but TV dinners and frozen pizzas. He had found it endearing - she had intimidated him, she was so pretty and smart and grown-up, but she had weaknesses after all. 

Irma had gone shopping on Wednesday, and had thoughtfully included the ingredients for another dish she had taught Mike to make. He took out a package of chicken breasts and a box of mushrooms. The rest of it - the garlic, cherry tomatoes, and the bottle of wine - were on the counter. 

He put some butter in a saucepan to melt while he minced the garlic cloves and sliced the mushrooms. He rummaged in April's kitchen drawers for a mallet, but couldn't find one, so he pounded the chicken breasts with the handle of a steak knife. He added the mushrooms to the saucepan to sauté, and then added the garlic and wine, and when the wine was reduced he added some heavy cream. He mixed some flour and seasoning in a bowl and coated the chicken in it. He melted more butter in a large skillet and added olive oil and fried the chicken in it until it was cooked through, then added the sauce, mushrooms, and tomatoes.

April came in, wearing her lilac bathrobe again. "I can't guess what it is, but it smells wonderful."

He poked a few of the tomatoes; they had softened. He took the skillet off the burner and showed it to her. "Chicken marsala."

She looked as if she wanted to take the skillet from him and start eating it right there. Reluctantly she said, "I'll set the table - "

"Nah, don't worry about it." He opened a tall, thin cupboard and took out a tray, put a crocheted yellow hot pad on it, and put the skillet on the hot pad. He opened the silverware drawer and added two forks and knives and some napkins to the tray.

"I take it we're eating in bed?"

"Yeah." He headed off to the bedroom.

"I like this plan." She opened another cupboard door and brought out a bottle of wine and a wineglass and followed him.

She propped herself up with two pillows in her usual spot; he sat to her right, propped up by his shell. They watched an old Western on her bedroom TV as they ate. April had a glass of wine, then another. She didn't offer him any and he didn't ask. Neither of them knew how his physiology would respond to alcohol; even Splinter had given up saké.

After they finished she put the tray aside and rested her head on his shoulder; she had longer legs, but from the waist up they were about the same height. His arm went around her shoulders. Their hands found each other and their fingers intertwined in his lap.

When the movie ended, April said, "I'd like my massage now."

"Okay. Since you walked so much today - "

She smiled. "You catch on fast." She got up and went into the bathroom and came back with the bottle of green nail polish, another of polish remover, some cotton balls and swabs, a box of tissues, and a small plastic tub. She figured she could do her nails while he rubbed her feet.

He was sitting in the chair next to her bed. She sat on the edge of the bed, moved the pillows behind her to give her support, and leaned back and put her feet in his lap. The halves of her robe parted and fell away, showing her legs almost to the tops of her thighs. 

"Oh, no," April said. She tried to slide her legs off his lap, but he already had her right foot in his strong, blunt hands and she didn't get anywhere.

"What?"

"Don't look. I have to go - I forgot to shave."

He found himself glancing at her legs before he could stop himself. Her hair was very fine, but red, so he could see it against her fair skin.

He said, "What's wrong with that?"

She stopped. "Really?"

"April, I love you. Yes, I think you're pretty, but that isn't the reason."

"Oh." Slowly, she let her feet settle in his lap again.

"Anyway, I know there's more up - "

"Don't remind me," she said. "If - " she emphasized the word - "I let you see me, then pretend it's all new to you. In fact, why don't you do that every time?"

He smiled. "Deal."

He rubbed her feet and watched her remove the chipped polish from her fingernails. As she started putting on a new coat, he said, "You don't have to."

"You're right." Her voice was a little sharp. It softened as she said, "But I kinda like it. It's growing on me." She glanced at her feet. "I'll do those next."

"Let me." He held out his hand. With a shrug, she handed him the polish remover and some cotton balls. After she finished the first coat on her fingers, he borrowed the bottle of polish and she watched critically as he painted her toes. To her surprise, he did about as well as she had. 

"Where did you learn that?" she said.

"I used to paint model cars, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah." He had been given a model car kit and paint set for his birthday one year, and it had become a minor hobby for him. She remembered being surprised he had the patience for it.

They traded the bottle of polish as each of them either painted or waited for a coat to dry. Finally they were both done. April held the lower halves of her robe together - she realized that was silly, under the circumstances, but she still had her modesty - and slid her feet off Michelangelo's lap and stood.

She untied her belt and shrugged out of her robe and laid it across the bed, leaving her in her underwear. She hugged herself, deepening the valley between her breasts a little. "Turn the heat up, would you?"

She told herself firmly that she was not stripping for him again; it was just that he could hardly give her a massage through her robe. Of course, she would have been a little irked if he didn't look at all. But he gave her just what she wanted - an appreciative glance, not a stare - and he did not look back as he went over to the thermostat.

She lay on her tummy across the foot of the bed, turning her head to the left so she could see him. It wasn't quite as good as a massage table, but she didn't have one of those, and this was comfortable enough, at least physically.

He went out of the room and she wondered what he was doing until she heard the microwave come on briefly. He came back in with the bottle of coconut oil he had used on her tangles earlier.

"Not too much," she said. "I don't like feeling oily."

"I know," he said, with a hint of a smile in his voice. She heard the bottle snap open, and then his hands rubbing together. Then he put them flat against her shoulder blades. She couldn't help but tense, but the oil was soothingly warm. She let out a small sigh of pleasure and closed her eyes as he began kneading her shoulders.

Outside, the sky was slowly darkening, and the bedroom was lit by a fading bluish light. The only sound in the room was that of the rain drumming steadily against the window. It felt very cozy to be in here listening to it, rather than out in it.

April felt a little stiff at first, but she was lulled by the soft light and tranquil quiet, broken only by the gentle rhythm of the rain, and she slowly relaxed into Michelangelo's touch. The motions of his hands on her body were attentive without demanding a response, but she found her body shifting and moving to meet them, to anticipate them. Her breathing became deep and even; all her muscles and nerves seemed to slacken; her aches, which had been her constant companions for nearly a week, melted away with surprising quickness. She began feeling tiny pricks of pleasure on the skin of her forearms and her neck and scalp.

"There are some candles in the closet," she murmured. "Left bottom shelf."

His hands left her; already, she found herself missing them. He set two candles on her bedside table and two more on her dresser. He went to the kitchen to get a matchbook and came back and she heard the rasp and saw the little flare of light as he lit a match, then smelled the harsh wisp of smoke when he put it out. The light in the room changed to a more lively orange, but it was still dark enough to keep her from feeling self-conscious.

He went back to work and made his way up from her shoulders to her neck and face and head. Her eyes were closed but she knew she had a big smile on her face. It felt so good! The tingling sensations were becoming more intense, and seemed to be coalescing around her breasts and inner thighs now. The first tiny moan escaped from deep in her throat.

She loved having her scalp stroked and her thick auburn hair played with, and right now she felt almost as if she were floating face up in water, with her hair streaming out around her like a halo, every strand teased apart from the others. He brushed aside the hair over her ear and then ran a fingertip lightly along the edge of her ear and she shuddered and took in a sharp breath, completely unable to conceal her reaction. That was one of her secret weaknesses; most of the time it was hidden, even from her lovers, by the lushness of her hair. Leave it to Michelangelo to find it, she thought.

The tip of his finger continued along the edge of her jaw and under her chin and then down the side of her neck. Her head tilted back, exposing her throat, and her back arched slightly and her eyebrows drew a little closer together. Her breathing was beginning to quicken.

She had started feeling a little sleepy earlier - no doubt from her relaxation plus the wine - but she wasn't sleepy now. It wasn't that she was alarmed, but there was definitely a sharp edge of...something under her foggy sense of warmth and languor. Anticipation?

She was thinking of saying something. Massage was one thing, but this was definitely sexual. Wasn't it? Okay, his hands were nowhere near her breasts or between her thighs, but he was definitely teasing her and getting an aroused response and then doing more of it. On the other hand, she could hardly have named a place on her body that wasn't crying out to be teased in the same way right now. And maybe he didn't know what her responses meant. And hadn't she already decided what was going to happen tonight?

Before she could make up her mind, his fingers traced back down over her shoulder and began massaging her upper arm. Her mouth was open slightly and her breathing was still coming a little hard. She wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. She could feel her nipples poking stiffly into her bra and making tiny dents in the blanket underneath her. She was glad he couldn't see them.

He lifted her arm up and worked his way down over her elbow and her forearm to her wrist and then her fingers. He stroked the tips of his fingers very lightly over her palm. That was another of her little weaknesses. Her fingers curled and closed around his briefly, and her forearm prickled with gooseflesh. He lowered her arm to the bed and went to work on her back again, this time working downward.

"You can unhook my bra," she heard herself say, her voice blurry. He did - it only took him a moment to figure out how to open the clasp - and the two halves of the back strap parted and slid away. She sighed as his hands kneaded alongside her spine where the clasp had been. She felt something click in her back, some small release of tension, and she shivered with pleasure. Michelangelo must have turned the heat up more than she realized, she decided; she was very warm. In the faint and flickering firelight, her nearly nude body glistened with a light sheen of oil and sweat.

For all her enjoyment, two tiny things had been nagging quietly at the back of April's mind. As his hands moved down to her lower back, they both came into focus at once.

The first thing was the lump in her mattress. It was at the foot of her bed, so until now she had only noticed it when one of her feet lay on it. But now, by accident, she had placed her mons right over it as she lay down. It was just an accident, April told herself again.

The other thing was what had happened the last time she had a massage. She had not had one in years, not since she was in college. She hardly ever thought about getting one. She told herself that, as much as she enjoyed being touched, it took the fun out of it to pay for it, or that she was just reluctant to spend money on pampering herself. But the truth was, she just had never been comfortable with what had happened the last time.

And it was happening again now. Michelangelo was pressing firmly down on the small of her back and moving his hand in a slow circle, causing her lower back and pelvis to move with it. The pressure on her lower back, the rhythmic swaying motion of her body, and the lump in her mattress were combining to gently compress and release her mons. April invariably became aroused when she was massaged there directly, and right now he might as well have been doing just that.

She was feeling little flutters in the muscles of her tummy, and especially lower down. She knew her panties were a little damp, or more than a little, and she knew he could probably see her wetness, and even as a tiny part of her mind said she should feel exposed and vulnerable, somehow it only made her body respond even more. Without her quite realizing it, her thighs drifted a little farther apart, as if to make sure he saw. A stray hair was tickling the lashes of her right eye; she thrust out her lower lip and gave a little puff of air to blow it away, but it didn't move; it was stuck to her forehead by sweat.

As her urgency mounted, April reminded herself that she wasn't with some stranger, but with Michelangelo, and she wasn't a twenty-year-old college student, she was a thirty-year-old woman with a career, sexually confident and comfortable. She had been humiliated when this had happened before, but she wouldn't be now, because that had been an accident, and this would not be. She was in her own bed, warm and safe, and -

"You love me," she said, almost to herself.

"Yes," he said, and pressed a little more firmly, as if reading her mind.

"Ahh," she said, and then, "Mm-hm," with some urgency in that last syllable.

"You like that?" he said.

"Mm-hm?" she said, meaning, please do more of it. She was no longer thinking or deciding. She was just here, in the moment, and she knew what she needed. It would not be long now.

"Okay," he said quietly.

The tiny vertical crease between her eyebrows had come and gone; now it stayed there, and deepened. Her mouth was open just a little and her breath was rasping unevenly in and out through her mouth and nose. A tiny thread of drool escaped the corner of her mouth and stretched to the blanket beneath her. Her hips were following the slow circle of his hand. The little sparks that had started in her vaginal muscles and her clit seemed to be radiating outward through her body in sharp colored zigzags of light.

"Oh, " she gasped. "Mikey - " she couldn't manage his full name right now - "I - oh - I'm - " it took her two quick jagged breaths to get through the word "I'm" - "I'm going to - "

"I know, angel," he said. "It's okay. Let it out." His voice was tender.

She inhaled and exhaled sharply twice and then her breath caught and her hands took thick fistfuls of the blanket underneath her and her whole body seized up for an instant and then at last she let go and sighed, "OHhhhhh...", her voice rising and falling in that single exhalation of breath, as she felt a small climax ripple through her. His hand stayed in place, holding her down firmly, anchoring her - she pressed back against him, her back arching, and the resistance seemed to amplify what she was feeling, to make her come harder.

"Oh," she whimpered, her lower lip trembling. She shuddered once, all over, in a single burst of released tension; for an instant, the room seemed to tilt around her. Her eyelids fluttered and her breath sighed in and out as she came down the other side, her body seeming to unwind bit by bit. "Ohh," she said again, a long sigh. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she giggled, a quiet, almost giddy warmth suffusing her. "Mmmm..."

It was the first real orgasm April had had in more than two months - she didn't masturbate often, and she didn't count it when she did - and she could not help but compare it to her last one.

"So much better," she said dreamily. And somehow, right then, she knew Michelangelo would know what she meant.

"You are beautiful," he said, a smile in his voice.

Her smile got wider. Her eyes closed, she said, "Mm-hmmm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random [April](http://i.imgur.com/COedqZP.png) cuteness, because why not.


	14. Chapter 14

April rolled onto her right side and held her arms out. Somehow Mike got his arms around her and lifted her to a sitting position. She had forgotten she had taken her bra off, until she caught a glance from him at her chest.

Then she was in his arms and her breasts were pressed against his plastron, her nipples hidden. They had stiffened as they rubbed against the fabric of her blanket during the massage, and then softened as she neared her climax, and now they were quickly hardening again. It seemed like she could feel every tiny ridge in the rough texture of his scutes, and the sensation was mostly pleasurable, with just a hint of discomfort that somehow seemed to add to the pleasure.

She got her arms around his shell and squeezed, hard, so that his shell creaked a little. He squeezed her back, harder than he meant to, but she only sighed and rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, and because her face was pressed against his neck he could feel her mouth move in a smile, so he decided it was all right. 

April thought of her orgasm as very secret; it made her feel more exposed than being naked. She knew her body looked good, but the way she came - the way she moved, the sounds she made - somehow felt much more revealing. Afterward, she needed intimacy and comfort and reassurance that she had been right to let her lover see it - which was why she had been so upset the last time. She blotted that thought out. Michelangelo was here and he was not going anywhere and right now that was all that mattered. And the way he looked at her...it was something more than appreciation, something that made it all okay.

She lifted her head from his shoulder and poked him lightly in his plastron. "Seems kind of unfair you can't take this off. Then we'd be even. By the way, Michelangelo - and I don't want to get ahead of myself here, but - "

"You're wondering if I'm like a human, down there too."

She nodded. "Before you tell me, it's all right if you're not. We'll find a way, I promise."

"I am. Everything tucks in under my shell."

She smiled - she would have hidden her disappointment if he wasn't, but in the happy wake of her climax she was not quite able to hide her relief that he was. "Well, that does make it easier."

He let go of her with his right hand and reached up and brushed a strand of auburn hair out of her dark eyes, and then cupped the right side of her face in his hand and pushed his fingers through her hair, combing it back from her ear, and she smiled and closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure even before he traced his finger along the edge of her ear again. With her eyes still closed, she brought her face to his, tilting her head to her right, and kissed him. Again it took a moment to fit their mouths together, but they were quickly getting the hang of it.

To Mike, April tasted of warmth and wetness and the wine she had drunk with dinner. Her tongue seemed tiny to him, and in his mind's eye he saw it, small and soft and pink. She moaned quietly and he felt it more than heard it, felt the vibration against his mouth and in his arms, tight around her chest. Her body felt soft, almost liquid, as if she might melt through his hands. Her hair tickled his face and neck; she wore no perfume, but he could smell her soap and shampoo and - he smiled - a hint of her bubble bath; it really did make him think of jellybeans.

Eventually the kiss broke, both of them gasping a little, her eyes wide and dark as she looked into his. He leaned forward, gently laying her back on the bed, so he was standing between her opened legs.

April had a moment of unease; she was ready, but she did not want to do it like this, lying flat on her back with him standing over her. She opened her mouth to say something, but then she saw he was kneeling in front of her, and she saw what he meant to do and her words died unsaid. Once again he had surprised her.

Her panties were soaked. She could feel them sticking to her as he traced one finger up and down her slit, and she knew it must be clearly visible through the wet thin white cotton. She had another moment of unease, but then she felt his snout press against her mons, and then she felt his tongue, licking her slowly and firmly from the bottom of her slit to the top, and her unease was forgotten. The feel of his tongue, through the fabric of her panties - and where had he learned to do that? - was perfect. He licked her again, a little harder, and she forgot the question.

April loved to be licked, and not nearly enough of her lovers did it. There was a reason for that, and her conscience prodded her into voicing it.

"Michelangelo," she said, her breathing already a little fast.

He kept licking, but he said, "Mm-hm?"

She said, "I, I can't - do this for you."

He paused and sat back. He couldn't quite hide his disappointment, but he said, "It's okay, April. We don't have to - "

She realized he had misunderstood. "No, please don't stop." No, that wasn't fair. "I mean, I just can't - reciprocate. I - I don't like doing that." Reluctantly, she said, "So, you don't have to - "

His face cleared. "Oh. Don't worry about it, then." He bent his head to her waist again.

She almost put her hand on his head, to stop him, to make sure he understood, but she couldn't. She felt a need to explain herself to him, but her need for him to keep going was stronger. She shuddered with pleasure as he licked her again, his tongue poking her sopping panties slightly between her inner lips. She moaned from somewhere deep inside and her thoughts drifted apart like fog, the words floating away and out of her reach. But it was all right. Somehow she knew he understood.

For his part, it occurred to Mike to wonder if she had gone down on that other man, but he pushed the thought away. He had not seen her do so, and that was enough for him. He had to put that behind him, to trust her.

He had wondered how she would taste. To his surprise, she didn't really taste like anything; the sensations on his tongue were mostly about moisture and texture. She smelled mostly of the coconut oil he had rubbed into her, but there was something under that he couldn't identify; something pungent but not unpleasant. As he had seen before, from the pictures, she had hair here, a shade darker than above, but still noticeably red. Here it was trimmed short, but not short enough to be bristly; it was soft and fine and it gently tickled his tongue. 

April lay back and closed her eyes. Her arousal reached a small plateau and she drifted on it briefly and then whimpered and moved her hips toward him slightly. She felt his finger tug her panties to one side and then he was licking her directly and her mouth opened in another moan, louder this time. It was as if she were flying and her whole body had angled upward again, climbing higher, toward her release.

His tongue, she quickly found, was strong, and a little larger than a human's, and a little rougher. It felt...intense. And it was warm. She had long taken it for granted that Michelangelo and his brothers were warm-blooded, but she remembered being surprised the first time she touched one of them, and somehow she was surprised again now, happily so. She had also read somewhere that turtles could not stick their tongues out; clearly, the mutation had changed that too.

His tongue flicked her clit again and she cried out as tingles seemed to shoot outward from it, all her muscles from her tummy to her thighs tightening and releasing. Involuntarily, her back arched, her hips rolling forward, pressing her clit more firmly against his tongue, and then his fingers were gently teasing back her clitoral hood, exposing her more fully. God, yes, she thought. More.

Her right hand snaked around the back of his neck, pressing his mouth against her, urging him on. Her long legs opened wider, her knees bent, her heels digging into the back of his shell. Her left hand took a fistful of the blanket underneath her, her grip opening and closing. She felt his tongue on her clit again, covering more of it now. "Oh, God," she said, her voice tight. It would not be long. In fact - "Just like that," she gasped, unable to say more. Just like that, she thought, and she could get there, just -

She did. Her whole body seized, straightened, except her toes, which curled tight, as she came again, harder this time. He kept licking her all through it, and it drove her orgasm harder and higher; she seemed to float, suspended, at the top of the arc, weightless, airless, almost frozen with the intensity of it. At last her body gave a final, all-over throb of pleasure and she began to coast down the far side, letting out a soft shuddering sigh as the aftershocks rippled through her.

"Mm!" she said, wincing, and pushed him away. "Wait," she gasped. "Too much, right after." So he didn't know everything yet, she thought; it was strangely reassuring. He kissed the insides of her thighs and then focused on her slit, avoiding her clit.

"Yes," she sighed, content. "Like that." It didn't quite arouse her - she needed more time - but it felt good, and she was just fine with that. She lay back and smiled, her eyes closed.

"When I was a little girl," she said dreamily, "my parents would take me to Coney Island for my birthday. Of course it didn't open until Easter, so most years I had to wait a week or two. But it was before the tourist season started, so it wasn't crowded. My favorite ride was the Wonder Wheel. Actually, it was about the only one I would go on. I was scared of the others."

He smiled and stopped licking long enough to say, "Hard to imagine you scared."

"Keep licking," she said. "Please. It's starting to - oh - " she broke off, briefly unable to speak as he went to work on her clit again. "Mm - Any, anyway, sometimes I was the first one on. And then I got to ride to the top, and stay there, while everyone else got on. It felt like I could see all of New York. And I always thought, someday, everyone out there will know my name."

He smiled. "They do."

She blushed a little. "Thanks, but I wouldn't go quite that far." Her breath had a slight hitch. "Anyway, that was kind of how it felt, just now."

"Let's go there. Later."

She gasped as his tongue found a particularly sensitive spot on her clit. "I'd like that." How long had it been? Twenty years? Then, she couldn't imagine anything more magical than a whole day of riding the rides, eating cotton candy and elephant ears and shaved ice with flavored syrup, and taking home a stuffed animal that her dad had won for her at one of the games. Now...

Now she felt tingles shoot through her as Michelangelo focused his tongue on her clit and traced his index finger up and down the edges of her inner lips. His touch felt a little hesitant. "Yes," she said, punctuating the word with a rush of air as she felt his touch at the center of her slit. "Please..." Her voice had something in it that he had never heard from her before, but something in him recognized it at once and it brought him to almost painful hardness.

His finger was thick, as broad as two human ones, and calloused with years of gripping wooden nunchaku. But April was more than ready, and his finger slipped inside her easily; he had turned it vertically to align its shape with that of her opening. Her vaginal muscles clasped it greedily inside her. God, she thought, yes. She didn't realize she had said it aloud. April loved to be licked, and she merely enjoyed penetration, but what she needed was both at once.

Mike was entranced with the warmth and softness and wetness of April's vagina on his skin. She was so small! He was sure he had to be hurting her. But, by the sounds she was making, and the way her body was moving, he clearly wasn't. With her encouragement, he gently pressed all the way inside her, and then carefully turned his hand so his palm was facing up, feeling her stretch to accommodate the width of his finger. He did not understand how she could be so tight and so elastic at the same time. He had never felt, never imagined anything like this.

"Michelangelo," she said, her voice strained. He glanced up. She held up her right hand and made a come-here motion with her index and middle fingers. For an instant he thought she wanted him to crawl on top of her; then he understood. He made the same motion with his finger inside her. April cried out and thrust her pelvis at him with what felt like her whole body, pressing his tongue firmly against her clit. "Just like that," she said in a rush. She was very wet now; a tiny trickle of her dampness threaded between her inner thighs and darkened a small patch in the white blanket beneath her.

He began sliding his finger in and out of her, still stroking her G-spot - he assumed that was what it was - as he went, and then he was licking her in time with his strokes. Her hips were moving rhythmically; quickly they matched the pace he set. She had her right hand firmly on the back of his neck again, her long fingernails digging slightly into his skin; her left hand took a thick fistful of her blanket, released it, then her arm reached back and up and hooked around her pillow. Her head was back, thrust deeply into her pillow, exposing her long slim neck, her bell of reddish hair making a halo around her flushed pretty face. He knew it was all outside her awareness, outside her control, and he felt an unexpected, almost intoxicating sense of power, of possession.

"Oh God," she whimpered, "right there, right there - Mikey - I'm gonna cum really hard - "

\- hearing that, Mike rubbed a circle around her spot and licked her clit firmly from the back of his tongue to the front, pressing his snout into her mons -

"OHhh," she said, a sharp cry, almost like one of pain, that slid down into a long shuddering moan, almost a sob, and he felt her body spasm all around him, felt her heels dig into his shell; she started to sit up, as if she wanted to curl her whole body around the place where they touched, and then she was pressed back flat into the bed as if by an immense invisible force, trembling in its grip.

As he had done before, he kept licking and stroking her all the way through it - though it was harder this time; her body was moving as if she were caught in her own little earthquake - until he felt her begin to slow down. He kissed her clit one last time and then raised his head a little and rested his head on her mons, feeling the heat of her body soak into his face. He left his finger inside her - that didn't seem to bother her - and felt the tiny flutters of her vagina around it. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain drumming on her bedroom window, and her breathing; it was still rapid, and she was making tiny moaning sounds as she exhaled, but it had steadied.

April lay on the bed, eyes closed, limp, soaked with sweat. As the sun set, it broke through the clouds, and a watery ray of light shafted in her bedroom window, adding a glow to her glistening skin and seeming to set her hair aflame. "Michelangelo," she said, sounding dazed, the syllables of his name slightly disjointed.

He slipped his finger out of her and stood and walked around the side of the bed. Her dark eyes opened as he lay down next to her and then she rolled onto her side and slipped her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his and held him tight and squeezed. Before she pressed her face into his shoulder, he was surprised to see the tracks of tears running down her face, one on each side; then he felt them, warm on his skin.

"April - "

He felt her nod. "It's okay," she whispered, and from the way she said it he knew it was. She squeezed him again, as if to say, I don't want to talk; just hold me.

He did.


	15. Chapter 15

After a while she said, "Thank you."

"You're beautiful there. Like everywhere."

"Mm." He felt and heard rather than saw her smile.

After a minute she loosened her hug and lay her head on her pillow and looked at him. He looked back. As much as he enjoyed looking at her face, he could not quite help stealing glances at her breasts. Her areolae were a light shade of pink, like her lips, and generous, and her nipples were large and tended to be puffy rather than hard, even when she was aroused. She let him look; she would have been a little irked if he hadn't, even though her breasts, large and firm though they were, were not what she considered her best feature.

"Michelangelo," she said, "I don't want you to think I won't go down on you, just because it's you. I don't like doing it for anyone."

He stroked her hair. "I know. I never thought you meant just me."

She gave him an uncertain look, but then she nodded. "Okay. It just - it feels demeaning."

"You don't have to explain."

"No, I need to. When a man does - " she lowered her voice - "that - to a woman, it feels...it's like he's shushing her. Like what she has to say doesn't matter. Which I don't like."

He couldn't help but smile at that. She poked him in the chest. "I know. Hard to imagine."

He caught her hand and tugged gently and then she pushed him into his back and climbed over him, so she was resting on her forearms and knees, her face looking down at his.

"I need to be on top," she said, "or you'll squish me."

"Fine by me," he said. "I want to look at you."

"And I need to feel in control. So I tend to give directions," she said.

"April - "

"And I need to talk during sex. As you can see. And when I'm nervous. Which I am."

"April."

She looked at him.

"I want you to say whatever comes into your head. Or your heart. I'm never going to tell you to shush. I like to listen to you, remember?"

She drew back slightly, as if trying to take him in. "Oh." She gave him a slow smile. "Now you're making me self-conscious. Sneaky."

"Why would you be nervous? I'm the one who's new to this."

"That's part of it," she said. "You look at me like I'm some sort of goddess. It's a lot to live up to."

"You are one, remember?"

For an instant she looked puzzled; then she grinned. "Oh, right." She deepened her voice. "We goddesses do not eat 'pizza'."

"This is better than pizza, anyway."

"Coming from you, that is saying something," she said. He could see she was relaxing, bit by bit, as they talked.

"Okay," she said at last. "I - uh, I'm not sure how we do this - "

He put his hands on her hips. "First I think we're supposed to do this." He began sliding her panties down over her hips.

She giggled. "I know that, you dummy. I mean - "

"I know." His voice was gentle. "We'll get to that."

"Okay," she said. She smiled. "Need some help with those?" Her thin white cotton panties clung to her skin, sticky with her sweat and dampness.

"Yeah."

She slid her hands down her sides and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and rolled them down, shifting her hips and legs until she got them down to her knees, then she managed to slip her left leg out of them. She blew out a puff of air that tickled his face. "There." She gave him a crooked smile. "It's your fault for making me so wet."

"That's why you're April and not May."

"Funny." She pushed herself up so she was kneeling astride his thighs. "Your turn."

He wasn't wearing his belt, so he was able to slide his hips down inside his shell. He reached down and gripped the base of his plastron, which, she saw, turned out to be slightly flexible, more like cartilage than bone; easing it back, he freed himself.

To her surprise, he was not very hard, but then she saw he was beginning to swell and stiffen. It made sense, she supposed; it would surely be uncomfortable to have an erection confined in his shell. April reached down and took hold of his penis with both hands and pressed it firmly against her lower tummy and slowly stroked it, feeling it harden much more quickly as she did so; soon it was fully erect.

He was uncut, which she had not thought of; but then, where would he have been circumcised? Anyway, she had seen an uncut penis once before. His penis was green, of course, like the rest of him, but this bothered her less than she had expected; it was, after all, clearly a penis. Like his overall body shape, it was not long, but it was definitely thick. April felt her tummy and vaginal muscles tighten pleasurably as she saw this. She was small inside, and afraid of a large penis - or just a deep thrust - hurting her cervix. This looked...promising.

"Okay?" he said. He was giving her the chance to back out if she wanted.

Slowly, careful not to hurt him, April leaned forward until she was lying on top of him, sandwiching his penis between their bodies, enjoying the feel of it rubbing against her clit and digging into her mons. "Okay," she said. She rocked her hips forward and back a little, feeling her vaginal lips part around his length, wetting it with her juices.

His voice was strained. "Do we need - "

She smiled and shook her head. "I'm on the pill." Her voice, too, was a little low and rough, but still warm and sweet. And he was a virgin, after all, and she knew he trusted her; for her part, she never had unprotected sex, except with someone she loved and trusted. Which, she realized abruptly, meant Michelangelo.

She raised her hips slightly and slid her hand down between their bodies and gripped him and stroked the head of his penis gently over her inner lips and then guided it between them. His hands came up to grip her hips, and she let go of him and rested on her forearms again and looked down into his face.

"Fuck me, Michelangelo," she said. Her voice was a whisper, the words clear and distinct.

The shock of it - he had never heard April say such a thing, even in his daydreams - drove him into her, but even now he was deliberate, not wanting to hurt her, wanting to savor every inch of her. As he penetrated her a look of intense concentration appeared on her face, as if she were focused somewhere deep inside. Her mouth opened slightly but her breathing slowed. At last he was inside her to the hilt.

She slipped her arms around his neck and rested the side of her face against his and lowered her full weight onto him. She let out the long breath she had slowly drawn in as he filled her. "God." Her lush reddish hair spilled all around his face, flooding his senses with its soft feel and clean scent, seeming to create a tiny space where only the two of them existed.

Mike had held April in his arms many times, yet she felt heavier than he expected. But the weight of her body, pinning him, was the most tangible of all the wondrous things he was feeling. Always, afterward, when he thought back to this night, that was what he remembered most vividly.

Of what he saw, he retained only fragments. Her dark eyes, so close to his; the tiny crease between her eyebrows; the pertness of her nose, which he had always thought was adorable; the trembling of her soft pink lower lip; the perfect whiteness and evenness of her teeth; the tiny shimmer of drool at the corner of her wet, slightly open mouth as her breath rasped in and out. The sheen of oil and sweat all down her long curvy body. A flash of her green nail polish, catching a flicker of orange candlelight, as she shifted her right leg, her foot digging sideways into the blanket as if struggling for purchase. 

For April's part, she had been right; his cock felt terrific inside her, just enough to stretch her to that knife edge between pleasure and discomfort. And by being on top she was able to grind her clit against the lower edge of his plastron; the slightly rough texture was perfect for it, now that she was warmed up. She was already sated - mostly - and just doing this for Michelangelo, but she nearly reached climax again anyway.

His hands slid upward from her hips and then his arms were around her upper back, holding her tight against his chest. As his urgency increased it was almost as if he longed to meld their bodies together literally and not just metaphorically; he had to remind himself to go easy or he might hurt her.

He had masturbated before, of course - invariably thinking of April as he did so - but this was as different from that as that was from nothing at all. He had been waiting for this for what felt like all his life. It was disappointing, though not surprising, that he was not able to last very long.

In the end it was not the feel of being inside her that did it, but a kaleidoscope of other small details: the heat of her breath on the side of his neck, and of her body, especially where it joined with his; the feel of her breasts pressing against his plastron, and of her arms around his neck, and of her hair tickling his face; her scent of soap and shampoo and coconut oil, and beneath them, of arousal and sweat; the rhythmic sounds of their bodies meeting, and of her voice as she cried out, her urgency increasing together with the sharpness of his thrusts.

He gasped, twice, harshly, as he felt himself going over the edge. There was that moment of weightless suspension, knowing he was about to come inside her, of feeling his climax begin to boil over and out of him. Their bodies joined once more, hard, and then he was all the way inside her and a cry was wrenched from him as he let go.

He was used to thinking of an orgasm as something that came and went in a moment, but this one seemed to go on and on; he had been waiting for so long. His world narrowed to the sensations of spending himself inside her, pumping jet after jet of cum into her. Apart from that, his whole body seemed to stop; his eyes were open but they saw nothing, and felt as if they were trying to roll back in his head; his mouth was open slightly but he did not breathe. It was nearly more intense than it was pleasurable.

Then he felt a pulse that was less strong than the one before, and then one more, and then he was coming out the other side. He shuddered all over. He could almost feel the endorphins melt over him, warm and syrupy and sweet, starting from his head and setting every nerve alight as they flowed down through his body. He was letting out small gasps of air, almost sobbing, his mouth working, without words.

Then he felt April's arms squeezing him and her voice saying, "It's okay, Mikey, I've got you. It's okay." For a few moments he had been in his own world, the sensations blotting out everything else, even his awareness of her. Now he gave one final gasp and then returned her hug, feeling her warmth, smelling her scent, hearing the sweetness of her voice. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes and he hugged her harder, rocking the two of them gently back and forth, the patterns of his shell leaving tiny indentations in her sheets. It was several minutes before his grip eased.

April slumped atop Michelangelo, limp, spent, sweaty, sticky. She tried to blow a stray strand of hair out of her right eye, but it didn't work; she reached up a shaking hand to brush it away. He was still inside her; he had softened a little, though not as much as she would have expected, and she could feel his cum trickling out of her. There was so much of it! She smiled and said, "Too bad you don't like me very much." Both of them were a little giddy, he more so than she.

He drew her face down to his and kissed her. "Hi," he said quietly. He had a deeply peaceful look on his face.

She smiled back and kissed him on the snout. "Hi," she said, with her usual undertone of pert humor. It was one more thing he loved about her.

"Did you...?" he said.

April's voice was gentle. "No, Michelangelo. It doesn't always work out that way. In fact it can be pretty tricky." A flicker of self-reproach crossed his face. She smiled inwardly; she was not entirely sorry to see it, but she said, "It's okay," and meant it. "I already did, remember?"

He nodded and relaxed a little. She knew he was still thinking about it and just didn't want to argue with her. She said, "Trust me, it'll come." Her mouth thinned a little at her inadvertent choice of words, but there was a smile in her voice as she said, "We have all weekend to practice."

That made his expression light up. And somehow she knew it wasn't about the sex but the togetherness. Her heart ached a little. He was young and in love with her; it took so little from her to make him happy.

"I'm sorry for what you saw that night," she said abruptly. She hadn't planned to say that; it just came out. He knew what she meant, of course. "It didn't mean anything. I wish I hadn't done it, even if you hadn't seen it. You would never lead me on like that and then walk away when you had what you wanted." Maybe, April thought, she was saying this to help herself get over it too.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you afterward," he said.

"It would have been painful for you. I understand that now."

"And for all the rest of it," he said.

She lay her head on the pillow beside his and let her weight settle on him again; for someone with a shell, he felt surprisingly good to lie on. She smiled. "Don't worry. You'll make it up to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was digging for April facts for this story and came across this [interview](http://screencrush.com/teenage-mutant-ninja-turtles-animated-series/) with David Wise, as well as a forum [post](http://forums.thetechnodrome.com/showpost.php?s=3f18c6dda81791bde40de8155d79c398&p=926159&postcount=12) by someone who corresponded with him.
> 
> I had assumed April's appearance and outfit were designed by the producer (Fred Wolf Films), but it seems it was Wise who created her look, basing it on an anime character named [Fujiko Mine](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fujiko_Mine). Looking at Fujiko's [picture](http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Fujiko_Mine.png), the family resemblance is obvious.
> 
> In the first season, it looks to me like April is drawn with a resemblance to Fujiko not only in her hair but also her eyes and mouth; later April gets more of a look of her own. The other thing they share can be seen from this quote from the Wikipedia article: "[Fujiko's] name means 'mountain peaks of Fuji', a pun on the size of her breasts."
> 
> Fujiko is a professional thief who, according to the interview with Wise, occasionally poses as a news reporter. As it happens, April's voice actress also voices Lotus Blossom, a Japanese professional thief (Beware the Lotus, Farewell Lotus Blossom).


	16. Chapter 16

Gently, April eased herself off of Michelangelo, feeling him slide out of her as she did so; her vaginal muscles squeezed him ever so slightly, as if reluctant to let him go, as if to remind her that she hadn't quite reached satisfaction the last time.

"I am a sweaty mess," she said, standing. "I need another shower before I go to sleep." He didn't say anything, but she caught his look as she was about to turn away. She felt a mixture of amusement, exasperation, and self-satisfaction. "Oh, okay. You can shower with me. If you must." He had his feet on the floor before she finished the sentence. At some point, April decided, she was going to need a little space, but after all this was their weekend together.

Her dampened panties, forgotten, slid down her right leg and fell to the floor as she walked to her bathroom. "I like to wash my hair first," she said over her shoulder. "Want to help?"

They both knew that was a rhetorical question, but she liked asking and he liked being asked. He stepped around her and turned on the water in the bathtub, making it as hot as he could stand, then put the plug in the drain. April had been thinking of a shower, but she never said no to a bath. If she fell asleep, he could dry her and carry her to bed.

When the tub was full, he sat down in it and slid to the back, tilting backward a little so the edge of his shell did not grate on the bottom of the tub. She sat in front of him. The tub was not quite big enough for her to lie down fully with him in it, so she put her feet up on the rim, against the white-tiled front wall.

She rested her head in his lap. He wetted her hair and then began shampooing it. She tilted her head back until only her face was above the water. She closed her eyes and smiled as his fingers massaged her scalp. "Mmmm..." she said.

"You like that?"

"Mm-hmmm." After a minute, she said, "Ohhh..." Little sparks seemed to be shooting across her scalp and down her neck. Her pleasure was almost sexual, but in a way, this was more intimate; for the first time April could remember, she was relaxed enough, she trusted someone enough, to let all her little sounds out instead of keeping them inside.

He took his time, seemingly intent on singling out every single hair on her head. To her surprise, April did not fall asleep; she just felt deeply relaxed, as if she were listening to a meditation tape. She breathed deeply and easily, letting out the occasional contented sigh or moan. She felt the water cooling, but it did not bother her; she seemed almost to be floating outside of it.

His hands made their way down to her neck and shoulders and then back up under her jaw. Her mouth opened slightly. "Ohh," she said, her eyes still closed. Her back was arching a little, thrusting the tips of her breasts above the water, but she didn't care. He ran one finger along her scalp from her forehead to the back of her neck and she shuddered all over, making wavelets lap against the sides of the tub.

Her eyelids drifted open; her brown eyes were dilated and unfocused. She blinked and then focused on him. She smiled; otherwise, she was utterly still. "What would you say," she said, "to doing this every day?"

He leaned down and kissed her, upside down. Her hands reached up out of the water, dripping, and slid over the back of his head, holding his face to hers. 

Eventually she let go and sat up in the tub, streaming water, and pulled the plug from the drain. She waited for him to stand and then took the hand he offered her. She turned and ran the water again, this time pulling the knob on the faucet for a shower. She pulled the shower curtain shut; it was double-layered, and made the stall, lit only by candles in the adjoining bedroom, much darker. It seemed as if they were alone together in a tiny room, completely apart from the rest of the world.

He embraced her from behind. He had tucked his penis away when he followed her into the bathroom, but now he had freed it again; she felt it digging into her lower back, as hard as one of his strongly muscled arms.

Her mouth opened and it took her a moment to say, "Again? Already?" She felt flattered, and aroused, and a little overwhelmed.

"Yeah," he said. His voice gave her another tiny thrill; it was rough, and sounded as if he were restraining himself only by an intense effort of will. But his embrace was soft enough, and he hadn't pinned her arms. He kissed the back of her neck through her strands of wet hair.

"Teenagers," she said. Her voice was rueful, but it held a hint of acceptance, or at least resignation.

He loosened his embrace a little. "We don't have to," he said.

She turned in his arms and faced him, feeling the hot spray of the shower on her back. "I know. But I'm open to persuasion," she said.

He kissed her again, this time on her mouth. She held him tight, feeling him pressing against her mons now, and her tummy and vaginal muscles fluttered. She stepped around him to her left, and he stepped to her right, so that her back was to the tiled wall. 

He was hoping she would say those three words again, but she just looked into his eyes and gave him a crooked little smile. That proved more than enough.

He meant to hold her gaze as he penetrated her; but as he did, his eyes closed anyway; as before, the sensations of being inside her were overwhelming, all-consuming. He must have thrust a little harder than he meant to, for he heard her grunt as their bodies met. He opened his eyes to make sure she was all right, but now her eyes were closed, her mouth open slightly, her breathing already speeding up, her head tilted back to rest against the wall, exposing her throat.

His hands settled on her wide hips, holding her pelvis against the wall so his thrusts wouldn't knock her against it. For a moment it was as if he could see all of her at once, her lush red hair and pretty face and tall curvy body. She was beautiful, and smart, and brave, and sweet. And she liked him. For Michelangelo, it all still had the quality of a dream. He leaned forward and kissed the side of her neck and then sucked gently at her skin. "Oh - " she whimpered.

April, feeling Michelangelo's hands pinning her to the wall, realized he could easily take her by force if he wanted to; and somehow that aroused her even more, maybe because she also knew she was perfectly safe, that he would never do such a thing.

"Fuck me," she heard herself say. It was an order, hissed through clenched teeth. April had been raised to believe that good girls never said such things during sex. But she already felt as if she were breaking the rules by sleeping with Michelangelo, and it gave her an almost giddy sense of freedom; why not, she thought, break a few more? It was just the two of them; there was no one to see her, no one to judge her. Her life belonged to her, not to her parents, not to society.

And he obliged her. The sounds of their bodies meeting, of her increasingly urgent cries, echoed in the tiny space and filled it. Even so, she noticed he was a little more deliberate with his thrusts than last time. At first she thought their previous coupling had just taken some of his edge off; then she realized he was slowing down to keep himself from cumming before she did. The trouble was, she was almost there; she just needed him to go a little faster, or harder -

His right hand let go of her left hip and slipped between their bodies and pressed flat against her mons, covering her reddish patch of trimmed hair, his thumb sliding down to find her clit.

Her breath caught as he touched her, and then she whimpered as he began stroking her in a slow circle. "Yes - " She was grinding her hips back against him now. And then he matched the rhythm of his stroking to that of his thrusts. "Faster," she whispered, her whole body tense with the effort of concentrating enough to say that. "Yes - "

"Like that?" he whispered into her ear.

She nodded quickly, her eyes squeezed shut as she neared her climax. "Mm-hmmm, mm-hmmm, mm - oohmygod - "

She cried out and shuddered all over, and then her arms were around his neck in a crushing grip. Her legs gave way; he caught her, taking a half step back to absorb her weight. She let him support her for several moments, trembling, making tiny sounds that were almost sobs as the aftershocks coursed through her; then she found her footing again and relaxed her hold. He held her tight for another few moments, but she stayed upright, though shakily, like a foal standing for the first time.

She realized his cock had slipped free of her; it bobbed slightly as he moved, bouncingly hard and stiff, still joined to her entrance by a tiny silver arc of fluid. With her left hand still clutching his shoulder, she reached down with her right hand and firmly took hold of him. He responded at once to her touch; his penis quivered gently in her hand like a living thing, and she was sure it somehow swelled a little larger.

To her surprise, he caught her wrist and stopped her before she could begin stroking. "It's okay," he said.

"Shhh," she said. "You need to let it out. Otherwise you'll wake me up in the middle of the night."

"I'll probably do that anyway. Let's get you to bed."

She let him gently take her hand away. "It's just I'm too tired to do it standing up again."

He kissed her cheek. "It's okay."

She thought he had to be in agony, but she let him turn off the shower and dry her with a large fluffy white towel. He quickly dried himself, then took her arm and led her back to her bedroom. Her legs were steadier now, but she did not object to the help.

Her bedroom was nearly dark; only one of the candles was still burning, and it was melted almost to the bottom. April tugged Michelangelo in the direction of her closet.

"Sleep naked," he said.

She shook her head. "I need a bra, Michelangelo. I'm not comfortable without one."

She opened her underwear drawer and put on a plain white bra; without thinking about it, she let him close the clasp for her. She reached for a matching pair of panties. He caught her hand and smiled and shook his head slightly.

April did not have an argument ready about why she needed panties, though she supposed she should have thought of one. "Don't tell me what to do," she said instead, even as she felt a tingle of...something shoot up her spine. She didn't think she had ever slept without wearing panties. Something about it struck her as deliciously naughty.

He turned her to face him; she did not resist as he kissed her. Her legs were still a little weak; that was why she melted into his embrace so easily, she told herself. When the kiss broke, she was gasping a little, her chest heaving slightly. She swallowed. She wasn't sure why, but she nodded. "Okay," she said, her voice a little strained.

He did let her slip into her white cotton nightgown, but that somehow made her feel even more naked. The nightgown only came halfway down her thighs, and was thin enough that her reddish hair was easily discernible through it. All he had to do was lift it up a few inches, and -

\- and he did, as he kissed her again, and then she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down and backward, and then she was kneeling atop him on her closet floor - which, thankfully, was thickly carpeted - with her nightgown spilling around his waist, and her hands on his chest with her fingernails digging into his plastron, and his cock inside her again.

And she came again, loudly, and this time the sight and feel of her climax was enough to take him with her shortly afterward.

Afterward, her nightgown was stuck to her body in various places and filmy with sweat, and the insides of her thighs were wet and sticky with his cum and her juices. "I give up," she said. "You'll just have to wash the sheets every day as long as you insist on assaulting me every twenty minutes."

"I can't help myself, April. That's what you do to me." He did sound a little dazed. Both of them, it seemed, were finally sated, at least for now.

"Uff," she said as she climbed off him. The fabric of her nightgown stuck to her dampened sex and brushed her still-exposed clit; thankfully it was very soft. "Help me to bed. At this rate I'll be going to work in a wheelchair on Monday."

He did. April lay on her side, only taking up half the bed, but somehow he had the impression he wasn't welcome there, at least not yet. He wasn't sure what to do; for the moment, he settled for the familiar chair. She didn't say anything; she was facing away from him. Besides that, he could read her mood from the set of her bare shoulders. She was upset. Somehow, he didn't think it was about the panties; it seemed to have started after she came that last time.

He also knew that when something upset her, she liked to be left alone for a minute, to sort herself out, before anyone spoke to her. He was worried, but he made himself be silent. He sat and admired the reddish bell of her hair, flattened against the pillow; the curves of her shoulders, the smooth white skin of her back, the roundness of her hips, the thinness of her waist.

She surprised him by speaking first. "You didn't do anything wrong, Michelangelo. I think maybe I did." Her voice sounded thick, and she was articulating each word carefully, which she did when she was about to cry. He knew she hated crying, because it made her voice blurry.

"Why?"

"This feels a little like incest," she said, still not looking at him. "You guys think of me as your sister. Splinter thinks of me as his daughter."

"It's hard for you," he said. "You've had to be a lot of different things to us. When we first met you..."

"You made a mess of my apartment," she said, a smile in her voice despite herself. "Before those Mousers ate it."

"Yeah. We never had a mom. Sometimes I think, at first, we wanted you to be that. And then you were our friend, and then, yeah, you were like our sister. And now you're more than all of those."

"Yes," she said, "and I do - " her shoulders drew inward - "this. Do I - " she stopped herself before she could say: do I need it that badly?

"I kinda made you do it, remember? Well, take out the 'kinda'."

"You didn't make me sleep with you."

"The thing is, April, I never thought of you as any of those things. Or - " he groped for the words - "at least, not just those things."

"Maybe not you, but the others do. And you're their brother."

"You remember what happened on my birthday that one year?"

She nodded, though he couldn't see her face. "Shredder nearly killed you."

"Yeah. He put me in an anti-mutagen trap and left me to die. I had walked out on my brothers and Splinter in a huff that morning - so damned childish - and he caught me alone. Anyway, as I lay there, waiting, I knew they would understand. They would know we would have patched it up. All I regretted was not telling you how I felt about you. I'd die, and you'd never know. That, by the way, was when I went berserk and clawed my way out of the thing."

She was still and silent.

"I was sure I wasn't going to make it, until I did. And I told myself if I lived, somehow, I would tell you. And I was going to. But the next time I saw you was at the party that evening."

"I remember. I gave you a kiss."

"Yeah. And you don't know how badly I wanted to just blurt it out right then. But I never had a moment to talk to you alone. And I was afraid of what you'd say. Seems like a silly thing to be afraid of, after I almost died, but - "

"No, I understand."

"And when I looked back at it...it was like a dream. It's so bright and vivid when it happens, but..."

"You wake up and it fades," April said.

"Yeah."

"When did you decide you liked me, anyway? I've never asked."

He smiled. "Guess."

She snorted, but he could see from the outline of her body that some of her tension was draining out of her. "When I was showing you guys that dress I bought for the embassy party?"

He chuckled. "Please. Way earlier."

"When we were riding the Cheapskate together? I could tell you were trying to impress me. You scared me good."

"Earlier."

"Um...when you caught me after I jumped off that catwalk?"

"Earlier."

"Fine. When you guys rescued me the first time?"

"Earlier."

"What? Oh. You saw me on TV."

"Bingo. I never told anyone, but I had a huge crush on you."

"Michelangelo, you can't fall in love with someone through a television set." Under her exasperation, she was definitely sounding better. "And you couldn't have gotten to know me that fast when you brought me back to the lair that first time, either."

"As soon as you woke up and started talking to us, I knew I was right. You were wonderful."

"As I recall, I pretty much blackmailed you guys into helping me get my story." She had been rather more single-minded in those days, she thought.

"Well, we did kinda threaten to keep you down there. But you weren't even afraid of us." He smiled reminiscently. "So fiery."

She sighed. "You're hopeless. At least you're not saying this to get into my jumpsuit. Since you already did."

He squeezed her shoulder and then ran his hand down along her side. "I'd say it even if I never got into your jumpsuit again."

She turned over to face him and smiled and closed her eyes. Her voice was tender. "I know. And...Michelangelo..."

"Mm?"

"I've always known." 

His throat closed up and he couldn't speak.

She said, "But it's okay to remind me now and then."

He cleared his throat. "Okay. April?"

Her eyes were still closed; even knowing what he was about to say, she couldn't help but smile. "Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you," she said, surprising herself a little, but knowing it for the truth. She wasn't sure just when she'd decided that. With a flash of self-reproach, she admitted it was almost surely before he gave her the pictures. She would keep that to herself. She patted the pillow beside her. "Come to bed," she said.

He stood and walked around to the other side of the bed and lay down beside her. She did not turn over again, but snuggled herself backward into his arms.

"Thanks for talking me through that," she said. "I get emotional, afterward. Sometimes."

He stroked her hair. "We're going to sleep together?" he asked.

"Mm-hm."

"And wake up together?"

"Mm-hm. That okay with you?"

"It's what I always wanted," he said. Somehow, that was what made it all real for him, more so than the sex. Until now, the last couple of days had had a dreamlike quality, like a rainbow-hued bubble that would pop at any moment; God knew he had had all too many dreams just like them over the long lonely years.

For an instant he thought he should call the guys and let them know; then he remembered he had been here for nearly a week. By now April's apartment almost felt more like home than the lair did. His brothers and Splinter knew where he was.

He stroked her hair until she fell asleep; her peaceful face still bore the traces of a smile. Exhausted though he was, he was too keyed up to sleep; for a long time he just lay there and watched her, trying to take in every detail; of her, of her darkened bedroom, of their day together. The way she smelled; the feel of her leg, which she had slipped back between his; the quiet sound of her breathing; the way it tickled the skin of his arm, still wrapped around her from behind.

Somewhere in there his thoughts blurred into dreams, happy ones for a change.


	17. Chapter 17

It wasn't perfect, of course, not the first night. April did not have a large bed, and she was used to having her bed to herself; she tended to stretch out her arms and her long legs to take up all of it, and to turn over often. A few times she bumped into Michelangelo, and woke him up, or herself, or both of them; but when that happened they just snuggled together again and went back to sleep. 

Neither of them snored, but April did talk in her sleep. At one point she said, very distinctly, "What about my story?"

Michelangelo was half-awake; for an instant he thought she was asking him to read to her. Then he realized she was dreaming about her job. He kissed her very lightly and said, "It's okay, angel." Irma had called her that while she was sick, and he thought it suited her.

April smiled, her eyes still closed. "Mm-hm." After that she was quiet.

*

She awoke in the middle of the night with a full bladder. She lay there for a few minutes, hoping to go back to sleep, but the discomfort was too much. She looked at Michelangelo. He was asleep. However, she had somehow thrust her right arm under his pillow, and her left leg was entangled with one of his. Carefully, she extricated herself; he stirred, but did not awaken.

She stumbled to the bathroom. Somehow she remembered to close the door before feeling for the light switch - another thing she was not used to. She turned on the light and winced as her eyes adjusted. She hiked up her nightgown and fumbled blindly for her panties before remembering she wasn't wearing any. She sat down and went. She washed her hands and turned off the light and opened the door and went back to her bed.

Unfortunately her eyes had not adjusted to the darkness again, and the bed turned out to be closer than she thought. She ran into it, lost her balance, and ended up sprawled face down over it and Michelangelo.

"Mph," he said sleepily. "Thought Irma was the klutz."

"Funny," she said; she was still recovering from her scare. She started to crawl over him to her side.

He was lying on his left side; he rolled onto his back underneath her and slipped his arms around her waist and caught her, a little awkwardly, since she was at an angle to him.

"What are you - oh," she said.

"Mm-hm." He gently shifted her body so she was lying atop him. His hands moved from her lower back up to her shoulder blades, rumpling her nightgown. One hand slid up the back of her neck and into her hair.

She closed her eyes as he combed his fingers through her hair. "Mmmm." He brought his mouth to hers and kissed her, and she responded.

She straddled him, looking ghostly in her white nightgown in the dark room. They made love slowly, tenderly. She came, as she was quickly becoming accustomed to; after that first time, he had been assiduous about making sure she reached climax before he did. And since she preferred to be on top, he found things to do with his hands, such as stroking her clit or teasing her nipples or just playing with her hair. Her climax was gentle, as the sex had been; in fact it was more of an especially intense frisson, but it felt delicious all the same. Afterward, she lay atop him, neither of them moving. Her stomach growled.

She saw him smile. "Want a snack?" he said.

She glanced at the luminescent numerals of her old wind-up alarm clock on her bedside table. It was just after three. She nodded. She rolled off of him and tugged her nightgown back down over her hips.

He came back with two paper plates and some cold pizza from her fridge, no doubt ordered in during his vigil of the last week. For her there were one slice of pineapple and green pepper and another of banana and sausage. She rarely ate in bed, but she was hungry, maybe because she was still getting better, maybe from all her exertions that day. She ate both slices. He brought her a glass of water, and she drank it with one tip of the glass and handed it back to him and wiped her mouth with a tissue. 

He took the dishes to the kitchen and came back to bed and she snuggled into his arms again. The flimsy coverage of her nightgown gave her the feeling of carrying a naughty secret, as if she were out walking in public without her panties instead of just lying in bed; the feeling was heightened by the fresh warmth and wetness and stickiness between her inner thighs. Having bread and cheese and tomato sauce in her tummy helped her go back to sleep easily; she did not wake again until morning.

*

When April did wake up, she was alone. Sunlight came in her window and lit up a broad stripe of her white blanket. She reached over to Michelangelo's side of the bed. It was cold, but she did feel the faint imprint of the pattern of his shell.

Puzzled, she slid out of bed and stood. She groaned and pressed her hand to her right eye; she had a slight headache from the liquid courage she'd drunk last evening. Coffee would help with that.

She also ached lower down. April had not slept with a younger man in some time, and she had forgotten how, well, vigorous they could be. Some of this, she knew, was just due to Michelangelo's youth, but she was also willing to believe, as he'd insisted, that part of it was her effect on him. She smiled inwardly. She knew she was attractive, but she didn't mind a little validation. She took a step, winced, and pressed her thighs together. She decided she'd had enough validation for a while; any more would be painful.

Walking carefully, she went to her closet and put on her lilac robe. Her bedroom door was closed. As she neared it, she could hear faint noises from the living room. She opened the door and went out.

Michelangelo was in the center of her living room, doing his kata. She smiled; she should have guessed. He didn't notice her as she leaned against the doorway and watched. He was sweating profusely; he must have been at it for at least an hour. She was glad to see he had rolled up her living room rug and put down an exercise mat. One of his brothers must have brought it over from the lair earlier that week.

She glanced around. She expected the house to need cleaning; she had meant to do it last weekend, before she got sick. But now the rugs were swept, the furniture dusted, the counters cleaned, the dishes put away, and the laundry hamper empty. Irma and the turtles must have done it while they were here. She would send them a thank you card. 

Michelangelo saw her and smiled and said, breathing hard, "There's coffee." Then he want back to his kata. She smiled at his intentness and watched him a little longer; she had always enjoyed watching the turtles practice. If she made him self-conscious, she would stop; but if she did, he gave no sign of it. After a while she went into the kitchen; as he had said, the coffee pot was half full and the heater on. She poured herself a cup and went back and drank it and watched him until he finished.

"You shower yet?" he said.

She shook her head. "I thought I'd wait for you."

He gave her that easy grin she had always liked. "You are good to me."

"Don't you go forgetting it," she said.

In the bathroom, he stepped into the cold shower and quickly rinsed off his sweat; then he turned the heat up and gestured April to step in in front of him so she could get most of the water. She did, closing her eyes and sighing as she turned her face up into the hot spray; the clouds of steam seemed to push her headache back. "Soap?" she asked.

He stood behind her and soaped her from her neck down her arms to her hands, then from her shoulder blades to her lower back. For April, it was like another massage; his touch was light and almost teasing where she was most sensitive, and firm where she needed that. He ran his hands up and down her sides, feeling the hourglass shape of her body. Finally he soaped her from her collarbone down her chest to her tummy, paying special attention to her breasts.

"Those are going to be very clean," April said.

"Mm-hm," he said, kissing the side of her neck. Involuntarily, her lips parted and she leaned back into him a little more. Her breasts were not overly sensitive, but they certainly responded to affectionate touch. He slid her puffy nipples between his fingers and gently squeezed, bringing them quickly to attention.

April was about to - reluctantly - say something to dissuade him when his hands slid away, leaving her somewhere between relief and disappointment. He knelt and soaped her legs. He lifted her left foot and soaped it, then her right. Then his hands came back up to her waist and slid around to her lower tummy and then downward. She winced. He stopped at once. "You okay, dudette?" he said.

She nodded. "I'm just a little, ah, sore."

He had obviously been about to rub her clit, just for starters; just as obviously, he at once forgot all about it. He planted a kiss on her hip and said, "I'll get you an aspirin - "

She smiled and shook her head. "I don't want one. It's a good kind of sore."

"Like you get after exercising?"

"Better," she said. She half turned and reached down and scratched the top of his head. "The kind that tells me I'm loved."

"That you are." He went back to soaping her, careful to be gentle around her pelvis.

He finished and his hands left her and he stood. She turned and faced him, the water streaming down her back now, rinsing the rest of the soap away. She looked into his eyes as her hands came up to his waist. Without looking down, she took the lower edge of his plastron in her left hand and very gently bent it toward her; her right hand slid beneath it and found his penis and carefully tugged it free.

He said, "You don't have to - "

"Shhh," she said. She took his penis in both hands and held it upright and pressed her body against his, sandwiching his length, which was quickly hardening, between her mons and his waist. She leaned forward and said, "Close your eyes and just listen to me, Michelangelo."

He did. After he was fully erect, she gripped him firmly and began stroking up and down, her knuckles grating lightly against his plastron, grinding him against her body as well, letting him feel her soft red hair.

She said, "Just so you know, I have cum more times, and harder, than I usually do in the first month of a relationship." She began stroking faster. "Maybe later you can go down on me again. I'd like that." She stroked faster and squeezed. "I know you would, too. I know you like the way I taste, down there." He groaned aloud; he was very close. She said, "I want you to show me just how much you'd like that, Michelangelo. I want to you to cum for me. All over me. Just let go."

He had always loved the way April said his name, and now her voice had a hint of teasing in it that drove him wild. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped harshly and his penis jerked in her hands and painted her from her tummy to her inner thighs with a thick warm coating of his semen; it also ran down over her fingers, as if she were holding a melting ice cream cone. April remembered to keep stroking him and squeezing, though she slowed down, until he gave a last intense shudder and there was no more. This time it was Michelangelo who had to hold on to April for support, though only briefly.

Her back was to the shower, which kept it from washing the cum away for the moment. To her relief, his semen had about the same color and consistency as a human's, but - "So much," she said, admiring the sticky mess she had made, half impressed and half amused. April was very fastidious, which was one reason she enjoyed sex in the shower; it was so easy to clean up afterward. She let go of him and splayed her long slim fingers; gooey strands hung between them like the spiral of an unusually thick spiderweb. "I have to ask," she said. "Is there always this much?"

He let go of her shoulders and, with his index fingers, drew a small heart on her mons, carving the lines through the glaze on her skin.

"So it's just me?" she said, not quite able to hide her smile. She kept his penis pressed against her body, smearing it with his seed; to her amazement it began to stiffen again, just slightly. She was flattered, but she decided she had definitely better stay on the pill; at this rate they would tear a condom sooner rather than later.

He nodded and then drew her face to his and kissed her. "Thank you," he said.

"Sure." She took a half step back and let the water run over both of them, washing the results of his pleasure away. She turned off the shower and opened the shower curtain and stood, dripping, on the bath mat, as he dried her off.

She went to her closet and put on fresh underwear and then her lilac robe again. "I'll help you make breakfast," she said, following him into the kitchen. She half expected him to try to talk her out of it; she had dated men who could cook before, and to her irritation she found them to be possessive of the kitchen, even when it was hers.

But Michelangelo said, "I'd like that."

She smiled. "Good." Her stomach gave her a flicker of warning and she said, "Let's keep it simple."

April soon remembered why she avoided kitchens. She burned the toast and then knocked over a carton of milk with her elbow, spilling it over the counter and the floor, as well as the front of her robe when she spun around to try to stop it.

"This reminds me of something," Michelangelo said, dabbing gently at her waist with a paper towel.

"Everything reminds you of that," she said, though she couldn't quite stifle a giggle.

He knelt and mopped up the rest of the mess without complaint, then went back to fixing breakfast. She bumped into him several times as they worked, but if she was making him impatient, he never showed any sign of it. For April, the last straw came when she was dicing a tomato to put in the omelette and she nicked her finger. Blood trickled onto the cutting board, mixing with the tomato juice. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked away; she just wasn't up to seeing something like that this morning.

He went to the bathroom and came back with a band-aid and some ointment; she lay her hand on the counter and let him put both of them on her finger. This reminded April of something too. She said, "You never would have shown those pictures to anyone, would you?"

He had followed her train of thought. "No." He looked from her bandaged finger to her face. "I'm glad it worked out this way, though."

Her lips thinned, but she seemed thoughtful, not angry. At last she nodded, slowly, as if she'd just made up her mind about it. "Me too."

He looked at her. "Sweetheart," he said, "you look a little pale."

She nodded. "I had a little too much wine last night." She noted in passing it was the first time one of them had used an endearment to the other. Usually she found those to be corny, but at the moment, somehow, she didn't mind.

He stepped around her and gently picked her up and carried her back to her bedroom. She could have walked, she thought, but... He lay her down in her bed and pulled the covers over her. She realized she felt much better just being horizontal. He went to the window and closed the curtains, making the room much darker; at once, her headache seemed to retreat a little.

"Open the window a little too?" she said.

He did; she took a deep breath of the fresh clear late winter air. It was cold, but she didn't mind; she snuggled down under the heavy blanket, feeling deliciously warm.

"I'll bring the food in here," he said.

She nodded. "Just toast, please. No jam. Or butter."

He came back with a plate of toast and a glass of water and some aspirin and the Times. She munched the toast and read the paper. Michelangelo sat at the foot of the bed with his breakfast and lifted the blanket back and rubbed her feet as she ate. As soon as she had some food in her stomach she felt better, and it seemed as if it would stay put. She changed her mind about the aspirin and took two.

"How are you feeling?" he said.

"Better all the time. Thank you. I'll be up in a minute."

"Take your time, angel," he said. She thought she could get used to him calling her things like that.

She shook her head. "I've spent enough time in bed lately." She caught his sudden grin. "And I don't mean that."

"Good. No such thing as enough of that."

April pressed her thighs together and locked her hands under her knees. "By the way," she said, "Irma's coming over for lunch in a couple of hours."

"Oh yeah," he said. He'd forgotten April and Irma had lunch together every Saturday. "Should I go check in with the guys?"

"If you wouldn't mind," she said. "It'll just be girl talk, anyway. You'd be bored."

He gave her a knowing smile. "If you say so," he said.

After breakfast, she went to her closet again and shrugged out of her robe and hung it up. She put on an old pair of jeans and a white sweater that was slightly too large for her. She wanted to be comfortable today. And though she knew Michelangelo would not touch her until she was ready again, there was no reason to make it harder for him.

They spent the morning relaxing. April read the paper and Michelangelo read a book. She had seen him reading it earlier; one of his brothers must have brought it from the lair while she was sick. "What is that?" she said at last.

He held it up. "A career guide."

"Ah." She smiled. "You don't have to support me, you know. I already have a job."

She realized she was talking as if they were a married couple, but Michelangelo seemed to be thinking along with her. "I know," he said, "but I should be able to help out."

"You do, every time you save my life. You did it twice in one day on my birthday that one year, remember?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "Don't worry, training will always come first."

"Good." After all, April considered saving her life to be an important job. But she also didn't want him to derail his life because of what he thought she wanted; he was, first and foremost, a ninja. Still, she couldn't help asking, "See anything that looks good?"

"Firefighter, maybe."

"Hmm," she said.

"I'm strong and agile and good at climbing," he said.

"Yeah, and it's dangerous and you work strange hours," she said.

"Kinda like being a reporter on the ninjas versus supervillains beat," he said.

She smiled. "Yeah. A little."

"You don't like it?" he said.

In truth, she didn't like the thought of him running into burning buildings, though she knew it needed doing. "It just sounds a lot like what you do already," she said instead. "But I guess it's good to use what you know."

"Channel 6 could hire me as your bodyguard," he said.

April's mouth quirked at the idea of asking her tight-fisted boss to cough up not just a raise but a whole new salary.

He saw what she was thinking. "We've been doing it free for years. About time he put us on the payroll."

"True," she said, "you are pretty good at guarding my body. Among other things."

"It's worth guarding," he said, "among other things."

She smiled again. "That's what Burne will say. Any man would do it free. They'd be lined up around the block."

"And after I whupped them all he'd know I was the right turtle for the job."

She put down her paper and stood and stretched. "Come here." He stood and faced her. She gave him a hug and turned her head and rested it atop his. "I'm still sore," she said, "but you can keep bodyguarding me." He picked her up and whirled her around once. She could never quite stifle a giggle when he did that.

"Hey April," he said. "Guess what?"

"I can't imagine, Michelangelo."

"I love you."

She let herself fall backward, pulling him with her. Somehow he spun them around as they fell, so he landed on the couch face up, with April on top of him.

"You could play with my hair," she said. "For instance. Then we could make out."

He ran his fingers through her hair; she smiled and closed her eyes. "I'd like that," he said.


	18. Chapter 18

Most of April's and Irma's weekly lunch conversations would have made Michelangelo feel left out - they tended to be about Irma's dating life, Channel 6 politics and gossip, news of mutual acquaintances, and shopping and clothes. Both women steered clear of current events; they had enough of that at work. Anyway, Michelangelo would not have been bored by today's topic.

"I'm not sure how to tell you this," April said. They were sitting at the small table in her dining room, which she rarely used except for these weekly get-togethers with Irma.

"Are you okay?" Irma said. Neither of them believed in small talk; it was one reason they were friends.

April smiled at the worry in Irma's voice. "I'm fine. It's just...I don't know."

"Whatever it is, you can tell me, April. You know that."

"Yeah." April took a deep breath. In a rush, she said, "I slept with one of the turtles."

That gave Irma pause, as April had thought it might. Then Irma said, "Just tell me it was Michelangelo."

Irma tended to be more liberated than April, but even so, April was surprised by Irma's tacit acceptance of what she had just said; it seemed surreal, almost dreamlike. "What?" she said slowly. "Why? Don't tell me he said something - "

"No, no. But he sat by your bed this whole last week. The rest of us took turns keeping an eye on you, but he wouldn't budge. I don't know if he told you, but we were afraid for you on Tuesday - your temperature was 105 for a while. Anyway, he looked..."

"Worried?" April said.

"Worse." Irma paused, thinking. "Stricken. We brought him food but he had to force himself to eat. Splinter nearly ordered him to go get some sleep. I talked him out of it."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't think Michelangelo would obey him, and I didn't want them to have to find out."

"Hm." April realized she was feeling something she had not felt in many years; namely, girlish pleasure at hearing one of her friends praise the guy she was dating. "The thing is," she said, holding her hands apart and shrugging, "he's a teenager. Not to mention a mutant turtle."

"Well, how does he feel about you?"

April smiled without thinking about it. "He absolutely adores me. And it shows."

"That's the main thing, isn't it?"

"He's practically my slave."

Irma put her hands over her ears. "Now you're just trying to make me jealous."

"Well, it is a little much sometimes."

"Poor baby," Irma said. But then she turned serious again. "He'll learn to give you space."

"I was watching him practice this morning," April mused. "He's been so gentle with me. Sometimes I forget how - dangerous he is. And he would die to protect me. No question."

"April," Irma said, "I always knew you would get together with one of the turtles."

April just gave her a dubious look. Irma kept saying things that made her feel off balance, unable to keep up.

"They're the center of your life," Irma said. "They have been, since the day you met them."

April shook her head. "My career is the center of my life."

"Right. That's why you'd rather be fired than report bad things about them to make Thompson happy."

"Well, of course I'm not going to lie on the air."

"You remember when that Shredder person trained those mutant frogs to go around town robbing banks? So people would think it was the turtles?"

"Yes, but - "

"You didn't even need to ask if it was them. As soon as you heard, you went right to their lair to warn them."

April frowned. "You're saying I'm not objective about them?"

"I'm saying that if it came down to it, you'd pick them over your job."

"Irma - "

"And you'd be right. They're your family. They love you. And you love them."

As April thought about it, she realized Irma was right. If she had to choose between losing her career and losing her relationship with the turtles...it would be no choice at all. Somehow, without realizing it, she'd crossed that bridge a long time ago.

"All the same," she said, "I'd be happier not to have to choose."

"You won't have to. So when's the wedding?"

April couldn't quite stifle a giggle. This conversation felt somewhat like a ride on a roller coaster; it was exhilarating, full of surprises, and a little scary. "Who said anything about that?" Without realizing it, she lowered her voice, as if she were telling a secret. "He hasn't asked yet."

"He will." Irma was confident.

"I don't know what you're talking about," April said. She felt a little as if she had had too much to drink again.

"He's crazy about you. I could see that before you said anything. Trust me, he'll ask."

April shrugged. "We'll see," she said, trying to keep the tiny flicker of hope out of her voice, and knowing she was probably failing.

"Can I be the maid of honor?"

"Of course you can, Irma," April said, to humor her. "I wouldn't have it any other way." That was true enough.

"We'll have it in April, of course," Irma said. "A spring wedding."

Despite herself, April was smiling. "I'll tell you what, Irma. You can plan it all out and I'll let you know when I see the ring." She stood and went to the kitchen to get them each another cup of coffee; she didn't see Irma watching her. She said, "By the way, can you stay for dinner?"

Irma smiled. "I'd like that. Actually, he already asked me."

"Oh," April said. "Ah. He wants another cooking lesson." She came back to the table with the coffee and sat down. "I'm just surprised he's willing to share me."

Irma smirked at her. "You can't fool me, you know. I know that walk."

A flush climbed up April's neck and heated her face. "Yeah," she said, looking down, but not quite able to hide a smile. "I needed a bit of a break anyway."

Irma folded her arms. "Definitely jealous. But hey, there's still three of them left."

*

Mike knew it would be awkward to leave right after Irma arrived, especially since he suspected April wanted to talk with Irma about him, so he left about ten minutes beforehand. He did, however, call Irma on her turtle-comm and ask her to stay to dinner; she told him what to get at the store.

April had told him to give them a couple of hours. That was fine with him; he had errands to run. First, though, he called his brothers and arranged for someone else to keep an eye on April's apartment while he was gone. Leo said he would do it and Mike thanked him.

He put on his disguise and did his errands, and then stopped by the lair to say hello to Splinter and his brothers, and then went to the grocery store and back to April's apartment.

April greeted him at the door with a kiss on the snout, in plain view of Irma. He glanced quickly between them and then smiled. "Hi, sweetie," he said to April. "Hey, Irma." He brought the bag of groceries into the kitchen.

"What are we having?" April said.

"Butternut squash ravioli and asparagus artichoke salad," Irma said, following Mike into the kitchen and helping him unpack the grocery bag.

"I think you two are conspiring to fatten me up," April said.

"Then I can have your job," Irma said.

"Don't worry," Mike said, "I'll still love you when you're overweight and unemployed."

"Good," April said. "Then after dinner you can buy me a chocolate sundae."

April's kitchen was crowded for two people, let alone three, so she sat on the couch and watched Michelangelo and Irma through the pass-through. Irma made the pasta dough from flour and eggs and began kneading it. Michelangelo sliced up a shallot, then some cherry tomatoes and artichoke hearts, then broke the ends off some asparagus stalks, then peeled the squash and scooped out the seeds.

"Keep those," Irma said, "we'll roast them."

"Like pumpkin seeds?" April said.

"Just like those," Irma said.

April stood and went over to the pass-through. "Let me have them. I'll pick them out." Mike pushed the cutting board over to her and she began separating the squash seeds from the stringy flesh. "My mom used to roast the pumpkin seeds after my dad carved the jack-o'-lantern," she said. "I haven't had them in years."

"Why not have a jack-o'-lantern here?" Mike asked. He put the cut squash on a baking sheet and slid it into the oven.

"Almost no one in this building has kids, so I don't get trick-or-treaters," April said. "When I was growing up it was different. We lived in the suburbs." And it was safer, she thought but did not say.

"You ever miss living there?" Irma said.

"Sometimes," April said. "But the first time I saw the city, I knew I wanted to live here. Anyway, I can always move back. Maybe when I have a family."

Hearing that, Mike felt an unexpected pang. What kind of family could he give her?

Maybe Irma saw him pause for an instant in his work. Smoothly, she said, "Well, that's a long way off. After you retire from a long and illustrious career as Channel 6's youngest-ever president." Mike felt a surge of gratitude toward her, not only for changing the subject but for her confidence in April.

"Thanks, but first I have to make news director," April said.

"You will," Irma said.

Irma finished kneading the dough and covered it in plastic wrap and left it to sit. Mike laid the asparagus in a foil roasting pan, coated them in olive oil, and salted them. He and Irma had to wait a while for the squash to cook and the gluten in the dough to relax, so they came out of the kitchen and sat on the couch.

April went into the kitchen and scooped the squash seeds from the cutting board into a colander and washed them, then spread them out on some paper towels to dry. She washed her hands and came back to the living room. Michelangelo and Irma were sitting at each end of the couch, so she sat down in the middle. They both scooted inward to squeeze her between them.

"Funny," she said, but she was smiling.

The oven timer beeped. Mike went into the kitchen and took the squash out of the oven, poked it with a fork, and set it out to cool.

Irma went in after him and began looking through the cupboards. "Mikey, turn the oven down to 400 for the asparagus. April, do you have a food processor here somewhere?"

"Bottom left cupboard on the sink side," April said.

Irma found it and took it out and studied it. "This looks brand new."

"It is. I won it in the Christmas party raffle at work two years ago. I've never used it, but I washed the pitcher or whatever it's called."

Irma couldn't help but smile at that. "Don't make fun of me," April added.

Irma set the processor on the cabinet and plugged it in and put in the squash and pureed it together with some butter, brown sugar, salt, and nutmeg. Two weeks ago April's spice rack had been nearly empty, but Mike and Irma were filling it up a little with each new dish she taught him.

The pasta dough was ready. Irma must have anticipated the cooking lesson, as she had brought over her pasta machine. Mike used it to flatten the dough and then he cut the dough into squares. Irma spooned the squash filling onto the squares and folded them into triangles and sealed them.

The oven beeped again and Mike put the asparagus in. Then he rummaged through April's cupboards for a stock pot. At this point he could find almost anything quickly; even though April never used her kitchen, she kept it organized with her usual neatness. He filled the pot with water, added some salt, and put it on a burner to boil.

April slipped into the kitchen to get place mats and silverware and napkins. When she had her hands full, Michelangelo slipped his arms around her and kissed her.

"Mmph," she said, squirming, afraid she would drop something.

He reached up and brushed her hair out of her eyes; she inclined her head slightly into his touch. "Have I said I love you lately?" he said.

"Not for at least an hour," she said. "Don't slip up like that again."

"You two sure you want dinner?" Irma said. "Maybe you'd rather have dessert."

April smiled. Michelangelo kissed her again, this time on the corner of her mouth, and let her go. She went into the dining room to set the table. He watched her go, his eyes drawn to the rolling of her hips. Irma gently swatted him in the lower part of his shell with a spatula. "Back to work," she said. She squeezed a lemon into a bowl and put the sliced shallot in the lemon juice to soak.

The pot boiled and Mike turned down the burner. It only took a couple of minutes to cook the ravioli in the pot. Irma stood next to him as she melted some butter in a small sauce pan and added brown sugar and sage and chopped hazelnuts.

"Hey," he said quietly, "thanks again for teaching me this stuff."

Irma smiled and glanced toward the dining room. "It's in a good cause. I figured it was, you know. We all love her."

"Yeah," he said.

"I hear you two whispering in there," April said.

"We love you, April," Mike and Irma said at the same time.

Irma took the asparagus out of the oven and cut one of the stalks with a fork to make sure it was soft enough. She put it in a salad bowl with the artichoke hearts and tomatoes and sliced shallot, and stirred in more olive oil, some salt and garlic powder, and the last of the lemon juice. "Done," she said. "How's the ravioli?"

Mike put one on a small plate, fanned it so it would cool, and handed it to April through the pass-through. She picked it up with her fingers and nibbled at it; it was still steaming. "It's done," she said. Mike took a larger plate and ladled several ravioli onto it and drizzled them with the butter and brown sugar sauce, then put some of the salad in a bowl. He handed the plate and bowl to April. "Thank you," she said. Mike and Irma turned off the stove and fixed their own plates and bowls and followed her to the dining room. 

The other night April had eaten breakfast for dinner; now she felt as if she were eating dessert. "This is amazing," she said between mouthfuls. "I can't say I would have thought of adding brown sugar to squash ravioli."

"We thought about toasting some garlic bread too," Irma said, "but - "

April put her hand on her stomach. "Stop, you'll make me explode just talking about it."

After they finished, Mike took the plates into the kitchen and scrubbed them and put them in the dishwasher. Irma followed him and preheated the oven for the squash seeds. She patted the seeds dry and then showed him how to toss them in oil and salt and spread them out on a baking sheet. The oven beeped and she put the seeds in. "Give them about twenty minutes," she said, "and stir them after ten."

She stepped out of the kitchen and shot April a glance as if to ask, is it okay for me to go? If April shook her head, Irma would come up with some excuse to spend the night. But April smiled and nodded slightly. Irma was a little envious, of course, and not anxious to go home to her quiet empty apartment, but she was happy to see April with someone who cared about her. "Have a good night," she told them. "See you Monday, April."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's no sex in this chapter - the next one is almost all sex, but it still needs work. The good news is there's another [illustration](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/japes/353152/Better-Than-Pizza-Commission) by the excellent Japes.


	19. Chapter 19

The door closed. Mike took the squash seeds out of the oven and set them out to cool and came out to the living room. April held her hands out to him. She half expected him to ravish her on the couch after having to keep his hands off her for most of the day, but he didn't. He did take her in his arms, but he seemed preoccupied.

"What is it?" she said.

"I was thinking about what you said. About a family."

Her faint annoyance vanished; she couldn't help but smile. "Oh." That was when she realized Irma had been right. I am going to need some time to get used to this idea, she thought. She covered her surprise by kissing him on the snout. "I'm not trying to put you off, but could we take a walk? I'm feeling very full. And we could hold hands. And talk."

He went to her hall closet and put on his trenchcoat and hat and came back with her white winter coat and lilac wool scarf. She held her arms out and he put the coat on her and zipped it up and looped the scarf around her neck and brushed her hair free.

Friday's rain had stopped sometime in the night; Saturday had been sunny and cold. The sunlight shone on them from a low angle as they stepped out onto the sidewalk; it lit April's hair, and the bricks of her apartment building behind her, to a fiery red. They turned right and walked toward Sixth Avenue.

It had only been a week since they had last done this, but to Mike it felt like longer; so much had changed since then. For April it was very pleasant to take what felt like a Sunday evening walk without having to think about work the next day. She slipped her hand into Michelangelo's. At first they walked in silence; she just wanted to enjoy being outside for a while and he seemed content to follow her lead.

As they crossed Sixth she said, "So what about a family?" She thought she knew what he was going to say; but, she admitted to herself, it would feel good to hear him say it.

"I don't know what kind of family I can give you," he said. "Somehow...I hadn't thought about it."

April had not thought about it either; she had been letting things go where they would. She was tempted to ask him if he wasn't getting ahead of himself, but that wasn't fair. "You're so serious lately," she said instead. "An education. A career. A family."

"Serious about you, yeah," he said.

"I know," she said. "I guess you always have been."

"Yeah. So I want to talk about those things. Where we're going to live. How we're going to live."

"I'm not making fun of you, you know," she said. "Or trying to change the subject."

"I know."

They turned right on Fifth. "Okay. Well, first," she said, "and don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think we should live together. At least not at first."

She knew he wouldn't like that, and she could see he didn't, but his voice was even as he said, "Okay. How come?"

"Two reasons," she said. "One, I don't want to separate you from your brothers and Splinter." She knew he wanted to interrupt, to say they would understand, but to his credit, he didn't. "Two, I'm used to having my own space, and I like it. That has nothing to do with you."

April also had a third reason; she wasn't comfortable living with someone she wasn't married to. Her parents would have called it living in sin. Irma had referred to it as a shack-up, though she was in favor of it; but Irma had always been a little more liberated. April didn't look down on people who did such things - at least not consciously - but she just couldn't see herself doing them. She knew her attitude was old-fashioned, but she couldn't help it; though she had been born between the very different decades of the fifties and sixties, her upbringing had been strictly in keeping with the former. But she didn't say any of this. If Michelangelo wanted to marry her, it had to come from him and it had to be for the right reasons.

"This has been a wonderful weekend," she said instead. "The last few days have been some of the nicest in my life. I'll never forget them. But if we did this every day, we would start to take it for granted."

They walked through the Washington Square Arch and into the park, casting long shadows to their left. Above them, the sky had darkened to royal blue; the bare branches of the trees stood out sharply against it. They began walking around the outer circle of the park. 

She squeezed his hand. "Anyway," she said, "you can sleep over pretty often."

"Hard to imagine this becoming routine," he said.

"Not to sound cynical," she said, "but the first part of a relationship is all sunshine and rainbows. Those are nice, but they don't make a good foundation for the rest of it."

"What does?"

She took a moment to reply. "That's harder. And sometimes it seems like the older I get, the less I'm sure of."

"Just say what comes to mind."

"Okay. Love. Trust. Shared experiences." Her eyes were drawn to a bunch of crocuses next to one of the park benches. The riot of white and yellow and purple seemed out of place amid the drab winter landscape. "I guess we have all those," she said. "But I think there needs to be some independence too. It's a way of - " she shrugged - "keeping some mystery about the other person."

"So," he said, "I'm in charge of cooking, massages, and youthful naiveté. You're in charge of - " he paused mysteriously.

She darted a sidelong look at him. "Of what?" she asked suspiciously.

"Wisdom, experience, and generally being adorable."

She gave him a gentle shove with her shoulder. "Not in that order, I hope."

"All right," he said, "what about a family?"

"I don't want children," she said, "at least not yet. There's too much I still want to do with my career."

"But you will someday," he said.

She nodded slowly. "Probably. And..." She sighed. "This is hard, but I'll just say it. I know you're like a human, but I have no idea whether we could have children together. And maybe Donatello could find a way, but even if he did - "

"We wouldn't know what we were getting into," he said.

"Yes. And that's not fair to the baby. He, or she, can't be an experiment. What happened to you and your brothers and Splinter was a miracle. But it doesn't mean we can hope for lightning to strike twice."

"Yeah," he said. He'd never really thought about fatherhood before. He hadn't realized how much it would upset him to find out that it wasn't really an option for him. And it wasn't April's fault - he would have faced the same problem no matter what.

April rested her head briefly on his shoulder. "We'll adopt a baby," she said.

He brightened somewhat. He hadn't thought of that.

"Anyway," April said, "I think we should try having a pet first."

He thought of the pictures on her living room walls. "I'm guessing a cat."

"Mm-hm. An orange one, like I had when I was a girl."

He squeezed her shoulders. "I guess I take being like a human for granted. What feels like the miracle is you and me."

That was a little cheesy, but it made her smile and squeeze his hand again anyway. "Don't you forget it."

It was getting dark now, and much colder. Mike put his arm around April's waist, just to give her a little extra warmth, as they left the park and started back up Sixth. He said, "You mentioned we'd have bad days. Fights."

"Sure."

"Let's make an agreement," he said. "Whenever we have one, we go for a walk afterward."

One side of her mouth curved up. "In the same direction?"

He would have given her a playful shove, but it would have been awkward with his arm around her waist, so he gave her a good hard squeeze instead. "Of course, together."

"What if it's pouring rain?" she said.

"I'll hold the umbrella."

"Deal."

*

Her apartment was dark; the only light came from the lamp over the oven range and the lights of the city outside the windows. They put their coats away and she led him to the couch. They sat down and she leaned her head on his shoulder and he put his arm across her shoulders. For a while they just sat and enjoyed the quiet.

Eventually she turned and knelt on his lap, facing him, tucking her long legs under her. The faint light made a dark red halo of her hair, and he could just make out the smile on her face. She pressed her nose against his snout. His arms went around her and pressed her body to his. Her breath tickled his face as a tiny "mm" escaped her, sounding amused.

"How are you feeling?" he said.

"Good," she said softly.

"We'll be gentle," he said.

She closed her eyes and nodded, her head still resting against his. "Mm-hm," she said.

His hands slid up to her neck and gently tilted her face to one side as he tilted his to the other. He felt her mouth open as they kissed. His right hand moved up and back into her hair, his fingers tracing over her scalp, and she moaned and opened her mouth more.

He could feel her thighs pressing inward on his, the weight and warmth of her body against his. He ran his hands down her sides, feeling the swells of her breasts and then her hips. He slipped his hands under her white sweater and felt her soft warm skin. He lifted her sweater up to her breasts and she let go of him and raised her arms so he could pull the sweater up and off of her. She lowered her arms as he dropped the sweater. Her hair was tousled now; he liked it better that way.

She reached back and undid the clasp of her bra; it made her shoulders and elbows and breasts jut out, and she had heard more than once that she looked sexy doing it. Watching Michelangelo's reactions, she could see he agreed. She gave him a tiny smile that said "I know what I'm doing to you" as she shrugged the straps off her shoulders. The bra fell to her waist, the straps around her elbows. She slipped her arms free as his hands came up to her breasts, supporting them, and his thumbs began slowly tracing circles around her puffy nipples.

She leaned forward and pressed herself against him again; this time she could feel the rough texture of his plastron against her nipples. His hands let go of her breasts and his arms went around her again as they kissed some more.

At last she drew back. She slid her legs backward off the couch and stood and unzipped her jeans and pushed them down over her hips and let them fall to her ankles. She stepped out of them and knelt over his lap again, this time so her waist was level with his face. She was completely nude.

His right hand came up and stroked the patch of soft fine red hair over her vagina. "No panties," he said.

"I guess I forgot," she whispered.

His hands slid around her hips to grip her buttocks and he pulled her forward. Unseen by him, she smiled and rested her right hand against the wall and hugged her breasts with her left arm; she didn't like having them bounce around. He slid a bit farther downward in his seat and brought her body to his face and pressed his snout against the outer folds of her vagina.

"Mm." Her voice had a hint of a giggle in it.

He rubbed his snout slowly up and down her slit, feeling the heat of her inner thighs as they pressed in against him from either side. She was already damp and fragrant and he wondered how long she had been like that; were her jeans wet? Had she been pressing her thighs together all evening to hide it? He rubbed his snout upward over her clit and pressed his tongue against her glistening pink inner lips. He felt her body shudder.

He slid his hands to the front of her thighs and gently parted her outer lips with his thumbs, exposing her fully. He pressed his tongue against her inner lips again, more firmly, getting between them this time. She whimpered as he slowly licked her from her perineum to the top of her slit and then went to work coaxing out her clit. His right hand moved up a little and he eased back her clitoral hood with his thumb. His thumb began making a slow circle around her exposed clit as he went back to licking her inner folds.

"Ohhh," April said. She was no longer resting her hand against the wall or cradling her breasts; both her hands were now gripping the back of the couch; then she had one on the back of his neck, urging him on. He pressed his tongue deeper inside her with each lick, occasionally flicking it against her clit, where his thumb continued circling, slowly getting faster; he could feel her hips moving to match his rhythm. Already he was becoming familiar with all the little sounds she made, the way her body responded to his attentions.

His left hand rested against the small of her back. She was mostly trying to grind her pussy into his face and his touch, but occasionally she would try to pull away slightly; when she did that he held her firmly in place, and each time he could feel her drawing sharply nearer to her climax; it seemed to arouse her to strain against him but not be able to move. At the end she was trying to pull away steadily, even as she whimpered, "Yes, yes, please, yes," and his bicep swelled as he held her tight. He pressed his tongue as deeply inside her as he could get it and felt his snout rub hard against her clit and her head tilted back and her mouth opened and she shuddered and cried out.

She would have simply slumped atop him, but her clit was too sensitive to be touched, so she pushed herself away from the wall and sat back on his lap again; for an instant, a line of glistening wetness joined his mouth to her vagina. She leaned forward again and rested her head on his shoulder and let him hold her and rock her gently, her busty chest heaving as she caught her breath. She could smell her scent, very faintly, on his face. She darted a kiss at the corner of his mouth, wondering if she would taste anything; but she didn't. She kissed him again, a little longer this time.

"Thank you," she said.

"Sure," he said. "Sore?"

She shook her head, tickling his face and neck and shoulder with her hair. "Hm-mm."

"Good."

She felt a little giddy; she couldn't help asking, "I know you just went down on me, but - "

"You want me to again?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Please?"

"And - " he said. He made a come-here motion with his index finger. 

Her tummy and vaginal muscles tightened pleasurably. She swallowed and nodded.

He brushed her hair aside and whispered something in her ear, flicking it gently with his tongue.

She took in a sharp breath. "Ohhh."

"Yeah."

"That sounds...nice," she whispered. Her voice was a little rough.

He put his arms around her and stood, lifting her to her feet with him. He let go and went to her hall closet and came back with an armful of old towels, which he laid on the floor. April sat down on the towels and then lay back, stretching out her arms and legs to make an X. She felt more than a little self-conscious; she was glad the apartment was dark.

He went to the kitchen and she heard the microwave come on briefly and then he came into the living room with two bottles, one of water and one of something golden in color that she thought might be honey, and a small box of baby wipes. Whatever was in the golden bottle smelled very sweet and somehow reminded her of the sauce she had eaten on the ravioli for dinner. "What kind is it?" she asked.

"Butterscotch. But you can also have caramel or chocolate."

She smiled and closed her eyes. "Butterscotch is fine. Just don't get any inside me."

And he didn't. He drizzled the warm butterscotch over her right foot and then up her leg to her hip, then over her tummy and breasts, where he probably used more than he needed, then up each of her arms and over her hands, then back down diagonally across her body and down her left leg to her foot.

She giggled; she felt more than a little silly. "I like this diet. Why eat dessert when you can be dessert?"

"Mm-hm." He knelt by her right foot and began massaging her there, then made his way up her leg. The butterscotch was a little too syrupy and sticky to be ideal for a massage, but it was warm, and his hard thick calloused fingers felt good as they rubbed it into her skin, and -

"Mmmm," she sighed as his tongue went to work, licking the butterscotch off her calf, even as his hands continued ahead of his tongue, kneading the muscles of her thigh. His tongue felt good on her skin, and she was already thinking about having it on her clit again.

When he took her left breast in both hands and put his mouth to her nipple, she said, "Put your leg between mine." He saw what she meant and pressed his left thigh down between hers; a tiny spark seemed to shoot through her as she felt his hard quadricep muscles against her soft wet flesh. She wasn't able to cum solely from having her breasts licked and sucked and teased - though it helped - but by grinding her clit against his thigh as well, she was able to bring herself to another small orgasm.

His tongue and fingers followed the trail of butterscotch everywhere, between her toes and fingers, into her navel. He was so close to where she needed him to be! Her hips shifted on her cushion of towels and she arched her back a little.

"Please," she said.

He understood at once. He wiped his hands with the baby wipes, quickly but carefully, and took several swallows from the water bottle, rinsing his mouth as he did so. He lay on his stomach between her legs and lowered his mouth to her vagina, pressing his tongue firmly against her clit, which was already fully exposed.

"Oh God," she said. "Yes - "

His left arm slid under and around her right leg and he pressed the palm of his left hand against her mons. He slipped his right index finger inside her; it went in smoothly, meeting only a little resistance, and fitting snugly as it had before.

"Ohhh," she said. Her legs closed around him; he could feel her calves and heels resting on his shell, and the warmth and stickiness of the melted butterscotch still on her skin where her thighs rested on his shoulders.

He began making the familiar come-here motion inside her. He felt her thigh muscles tighten where they touched his shoulders, and her abdominal muscles tighten under his left hand, and her vaginal muscles tighten around his finger. "Yes," she said, "like that." He stroked her lightly at first, wary of making her sore again, but she soon said, "More. Please." Her voice was strained. Her body curved toward him and he felt her hands pressing against the back of his neck.

He stroked her more firmly and she responded at once; her hands fell away from his neck and gripped the towels beneath her. Her body relaxed and then bent the other way, arching off the floor; her head tilted back, showing her long slim neck. Her nude body glistened with a thin film of sweat; here and there a droplet trickled over her skin, carving a trail through the melted butterscotch as it slid to the dampened cloth below.

"Oh God right there," she gasped as he found a particularly sensitive spot. He had been trying to find that spot again; he stopped and pressed more firmly and rubbed her in a slow tight circle. He pressed the back of his tongue against her clit and licked her toward the front, trying to curl his tongue around her as he went.

He felt her whole body tense up. "Mikey - " she gasped.

Her clit was at the tip of his tongue now. For an instant, he wished he had lips like hers; as he had discovered by kissing her, she could use them to create suction, or to squeeze. He settled for giving her a good flick with his tongue, and then another. That was enough.

"OH," she said. He felt the weight of her calves lift briefly from his shell as her legs straightened; then the weight was back again as she shuddered and sank down into the towel, sweaty, spent.

For an instant April felt very vulnerable, lying flat on her back with her legs spread apart and over his shoulders, but her whole body felt aglow, relaxed and contented and peaceful, and her discomfort quickly faded. He gently lay her legs back down and went back to massaging her, though he seemed to sense her mood and his touch was more about simply making her feel good than turning her on. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open just enough to show her even white teeth, her breathing slow and deep and even.

Eventually she said, "I hate to say this, but - " Her eyes were still closed, her voice drowsy.

He smiled. "Sore again?"

She nodded. "But I know something we can do that won't hurt." She beckoned him forward; he crawled over her and she guided him so he was kneeling astride her tummy. She freed his penis from his lower plastron and gripped it in both her sticky hands. A few firm strokes brought it to its full length and hardness. She slowed down, but kept stroking, watching him carefully. She could easily have made him paint her face and breasts right then - his breaths were already coming short and a little ragged - but she skillfully brought him right to the edge and then, ever so slightly, eased off, only to repeat the cycle when he began to soften. He groaned, almost painfully, and she decided he was ready.

Her hands guided his penis between her breasts and then pressed them inward to sandwich it firmly between them. He needed no prompting; his hips moved forward, then back again. Her breasts were slick with melted butterscotch and sweat, and didn't provide quite as much friction as her hands had, but -

"Just so you know," April said - her voice was low and a little rough and shot tiny thrills up his spine - "I have never let anyone do this."

That, plus one or two more thrusts, did it. Maybe it was the sound of her voice, or maybe it was the thought that she was opening her sexual horizons just for him. He wanted to look into her eyes as he came, but somewhere in there his eyes closed on their own. At the last instant, April's left hand shot across the top of the valley between her breasts to keep him from cumming on her face; she could actually feel each spurt striking her palm, another and another, enough to surprise her even though she knew he had been saving up for this all day. She felt his seed trickling back down between her breasts, and into the hollow of her throat, and down the sides of her neck, into her hair.

A little weird, but definitely better than a blowjob, she decided with a private smile.

This would become their pattern; he would go down on her, and then again, this time stroking the inside of her vagina; then she would either take him inside her, if she was not already sore, or find some other way to give him his release, if she was. Afterward they would take a bath together and he would wash her hair.

Neither of them minded the sameness of their time together both in and out of bed. April had always preferred stability to spontaneity; she liked to know what to expect; she found it more cozy. For his part, he was happy to follow her lead; her sexual openness to him was magical, a happiness he had never known, beyond even what he had imagined.

As he carried her to the bathroom, she could feel herself dripping melted butterscotch on the hallway floor. But the floor was hardwood, and she still felt too dazedly good to give it more than a passing thought.

"You're sweet and sticky like a cinnamon bun," he said.

"Always thinking of food," she said, but she was smiling.

"You taste better than butterscotch anyway."

"Even down there?"

"Especially down there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I apologize for the tortoise speed of this update; in short, it was not a good summer for writing, but I'm trying to get back into the swing of it now.
> 
> Second, up until now, all my descriptions of NYC had been based on Google Maps and Images, as I'd never been there. I had a chance to go there in July, so I took pictures of the places mentioned in this story.
> 
>   * [April's address](https://photos.google.com/album/AF1QipPuP3LW7ZsnW18lAYslf3H6SSvUhTHHeC1mN_rF) in the West Village (as mentioned in "The Maltese Hamster")
>   * [Union Square Park](https://photos.google.com/album/AF1QipMh7mh8fHqwyY6HtZQA2lBmtlWDQJnP81AL8YDk)
>   * [Inwood Hill Park](https://photos.google.com/album/AF1QipNWDN_IBS0xmN7Bqd4mfOCOEJj2kKIo8GQjOisO)
>   * [Washington Square Park](https://photos.google.com/album/AF1QipPER6Yd2yhZtCW0MeRMnFIzjeByYjuDhK856SHP)
>   * [Jackson Square Park](https://photos.google.com/album/AF1QipP-zHMD5B-Jx08mO03Dy76S50J4WKxlvsnJ9tyg)
>   * [Abingdon Square Park](https://photos.google.com/album/AF1QipOCiPbrO2n2N-FgYEoIcsQ5unWe9i2Vvu4E5mP2)
> 


**Author's Note:**

> This story is illustrated by the excellent [Japes](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/user/japes/profile):
> 
>   * [1](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/hdctbpal/342516/April-ONeil-1)
>   * [1 (non-camera version)](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/japes/342723/Aprils-Almost-Finished)
>   * [2](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/hdctbpal/346779/April-ONeil-2)
>   * [3](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/japes/348578/Bringing-Her-Out-Of-Her-Shell-Commission)
>   * [4](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/hdctbpal/349655/April-ONeil-4)
>   * [5](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/hdctbpal/350996/April-ONeil-5)
>   * [6](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/japes/351748/Tender-Turtle-Commission)
>   * [7](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/japes/353152/Better-Than-Pizza-Commission)
>   * [8](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/hdctbpal/359171/April-ONeil-8)
>   * [9](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/hdctbpal/359172/April-ONeil-9)
>   * [10](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/hdctbpal/366056/April-ONeil-10)
>   * [11](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/hdctbpal/366681/April-ONeil-11)
>   * [11 (alternate dress)](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/japes/365991/Nice-Day-For-Green-Wedding-Commission)
> 



End file.
